Sea Flower
by Soledad
Summary: Decades before the Ring War, years before Captain Thorongil would come to Gondor, trouble brews in Umbar, the Third Realm in Exile. The Consuls are desperately seeking a way out - how would their efforts influence the family of the Prince of Dol Amroth? Written for the 10 year anniversary of the Edhellond group.
1. Chapter 1: Umbar

**Sea-Flower**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Andrahar belongs to Isabeau of Greenlea and is used with her generous consent. His father, Isfhandijár, and the rest of their family are mine, however, as is their entire culture, created after the template of Ancient Persia.

**Rating:** Adults I think. Too much politics and violence for young readers.

**Author's notes:** The history of Umbar and the peculiarities of its society are based on Lalaith's article "The Third Realm in Exile"… more or less. I added my own twists here, so the end results are quite different. In some places, I consciously chose a point of view opposite to that of Lalaith's, just because it served the story better.

Agannâlo means Death-Shadow in Adûnaic; I decided that would be the name the Umbari would mention Mordor by. Urîd êphalak is supposed to mean Far-Away Mountain and is a name for Orodruin in Adûnaic, which I have tried to create based on the Ardalambion website's data… whether it is grammatically correct or not is another question.

The Cult and its supposed leader is based on a rejected idea of the Professor himself, as presented in the last book of the HoMe series.

Beta-read by Larner, whom I owe my gratitude.

* * *

**Chapter 01 – Umbar**

The people of Gondor liked to declare that Umbar was the oldest and most wicked city of the Realm. A Corsair stronghold full of renegades and Haradrim bandits, they said. A centre of dark cults where Sauron – and before him Morgoth – had been served willingly and most ruthlessly, ever since the Númenórean seafarers had begun establishing landing and trading points along the southern coast of Middle-earth – small settlements that eventually grew into cruel vice-kingdoms.

Those kingdoms and strongholds had left many rumours in the legends of Men of which Elves knew nothing – it was only known among the Wise that at least three of the Nazgûl had been recruited out of them. Only Umbar had, however, acquired a special position in history and made a name for itself – and _not_ a good one, at least as far as Gondor was concerned.

As always with rumours, all this was both very true and utterly false at the same time.

To begin with, Umbar was _not_ part of the South-kingdom; had never truly been, not even at the times when Gondor had managed to besiege it or take it by force. Neither was it merely a city; it was a sovereign realm of its own, the inland boundaries of which had once extended as far as to most of the length of the River Harnen and the Ephel Dúath on the North, as well as the edge of Khand on the East; and they had included the desert inland area of Harondor, once the southernmost province of Gondor, before a great plague would have stripped it from its inhabitants.

In these days, nearing the end of the third millennium of the Third Age of Arda, Umbar had somewhat fallen from its ancient grace. The Realm that had once – successfully – competed the fledgling Gondor for power, had been reoccupied and rebuilt under Haradric sovereignty… which mostly meant that the Consuls of the Realm had to serve the interests of the Southron bound of independent realms, mostly by becoming Corsairs again, in the old, cruel tradition of the Castamirioni, although on a considerably lower level.

Unlike the supreme high-sea galleons of Númenor (or later those of the Ship-Kings of Gondor), their fleet consisted merely of dromunds, and ships of great draught with many oars – one hundred of those in two banks, in fact, which were served by slaves – and with black sails that would belly in the slightest breeze.

However, these were keel-less ships, restricted to coastal drift and unable to cope with the rough waters of Belegaer. Still, Umbar possessed the greatest fleet in Middle-earth, and few other vessels could hope to face their warships – or outrun them – in these days. Only the proud Swanships of Dol Amroth, built with the help of the Nimîr stood a chance; them and those of the Nimîr themselves, mooring in the Elf-haven of Edhellond that lay in the Bay of Belfalas, above Dol Amroth, where the River Morthond reached the Sea.

As the power of Agannâlo had begun to gather strength and influence again, and even the Urîd êphalak had burst into flame anew, Umbar had fallen under the domination of Zigûr's dark servants. The people of Gondor said that the Corsairs had long ceased to fear the might of the South-kingdom, and they had allied themselves with the Enemy, their lore-masters seeking to gain evil knowledge from the Dark Lord.

Which, once again, was very true and yet utterly wrong.

Yea, they _had_ allied themselves with the Haradric realms, under whose overlordship they were nominally standing. And there _were_ many dark cults and accursed temples in Umbarlond, the actual city, also known as the Haven of Umbar. From the fire-worshipping of Bakshir to the snake-cult of Khambaluk and the animalistic superstitions of Zipangu, every Haradric belief had taken up residence in the Bazaar and the haven areas. But the true dark cult of Númenor, the one that had led to the Downfall of Westernesse, the one including black sorcery and cruel rituals and even the burning of Men on Zigûr's altars, was no longer present in the Realm… at least not officially.

'Twas the _unofficial_ presence that had worried the Consuls of the Realm lately. And that was also the reason that brought them together in the _Zadan'n Abrazân_, the _House of the Steadfast_, the ancient fortress of Umbarlond: to discuss the immediate problem, the likely ramifications and how they might find a way out of the trap… if that was at all possible.

'Twas the year 2968, in the Third Age of Arda, and – save from the occasional Corsair raid along Gondor's coasts – Umbar had known relative peace for more than eighty years. At least where Gondor was considered. It had been less than fifteen years since the inland areas have been severely raided by the forces of Bakshir. The second-largest Haradric realm had even besieged Umbarlond itself, and it had taken First Consul Herucalmo great personal sacrifices – namely to send his own daughter to the _kha-kan_'s bed as a concubine – to placate the enraged Haradric warlord and persuade him to take his booty and go home.

That had led to a lasting peace between the two realms… at least until lately. For rumours had reached Lord Herucalmo that _k__ha-kan_ Isfhandijár had died in the previous year and his legitimate sons had driven out and killed all his concubines and their children. Which meant that Rothinzil was most likely dead, and they no longer had a supporter in the _kha-kan_'s house – whoever might be filling that particular office right now. That also meant that Umbar as a whole and Lord Herucalmo himself needed another strong ally to better their chances against their Haradric overlords.

He had invited Second Consul Manwendil and his lady to the _Zadan'n Abrazân_, as there they had no reason to fear spies. While the city was showing a definite Southron flair, due to the long exposure to the various Haradric realms, the _Zadan'n Abrazân_ was an ancient relic. It was a fortress raised in the late Second Age in the characteristically monolithic style of Númenor. It had been hewn into the living rock of the stone coast and stood partially in the water of the Bay. The keep itself was a hundred and thirty-five feet high and had a diameter of almost a hundred feet. The crenellated stone wall encircling it rose as high as eighty feet, and eight round, stocky towers, each of them ninety-feet high and crowned with a steel cap, protected it.

Four millennia had the _Zadan'n Abrazân_ lasted already, and aside from adding a few comforts of more recent times, it had not been changed all that much. Its stone grey and withered with age, it was still the same unconquerable fortress. No enemy could ever set foot beyond its defences, unless by treachery. And no-one would even _think_ of betraying the First Consul, unless they had a death wish.

Like most Umbarian nobles, Lord Herucalmo, too, had a townhouse in the city. Yet he preferred the keep of the _Zadan'n Abrazân_, not wishing to be constantly reminded of the death of his wife and the loss of his daughter. The townhouse had been _their_ realm; now it was but an empty shell.

Besides, Lord Herucalmo was the one responsible for defences and warfare, while Second Consul Manwendil was supposed to care for trade negotiations and civilian affairs. It had been time-honoured tradition since the days of the Ancient Realm that Umbar would be ruled by a pair of consuls; mostly, yet not exclusively men of high birth and standing, as ancient Númenórean right allowed a female child to follow her father in power if she was the firstborn.

These nobly-born rulers counted back their ancestry to the _King's Men_ of the Second Age, the ones called the Black Númenóreans by their Gondorian cousins. Never had one of them proclaimed him- or herself as the King or the Queen of Umbar, even though they'd considered themselves the true representatives of the last legal King of Númenor, regarding the Heirs of Nimruzîr (Elendil) as usurpers. Legend even spoke of some surviving relatives of the Line of Elros (or Ar-Gimilzôr, as they preferred to mention their ancestor) among the local nobles who claimed the governship.

Whether _that_ had been true or not, no-one could tell all those millennia later. In any case, the overlords of the Haven had created a system not unlike that of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor, claiming to rule "in the King's absence". By the King they meant Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, of course, whose rule they glorified, enshrouding the dark events of the past and magnifying the power and greatness of Westernesse in memory. Oddly enough, this attitude had led to the birth of a cult that foretold Ar-Pharazôn's triumphant return from the West. Followers of that cult expected the King to reclaim the throne of the unified Reams in Exile – all three of them – in some distant future.

The current rulers of the Realm, Lords Herucalmo and Manwendil, did not subscribe to this messianistic cult; nor did they join to that of the Death Eater, the revival of which they had watched with some consternation for quite some time by now. They were warlords and merchants, respectively, and did not want to tighten the leash binding them to Agannâlo – or to the Haradric realms – more than it might seem inevitable. They had to consider their moves very carefully, though, for the number of Zigûr's spies had been slowly yet steadily increasing in the recent years. They could almost literally feel the iron grip of Zigûr tightening around them. 'Twas high time to seek out alternate routes that would not bind them quite so tightly to the fate of Agannâlo.

A discrete knock on the Great Hall's door woke Lord Herucalmo from his dark musings. Master Indilzar, his castellan, stepped in and bowed respectfully.

"Lord Manwendil and his lady wife have arrived, my Lord," he murmured. Herucalmo nodded.

"Let them be escorted here and see that refreshments are brought to the Hall," he ordered. "Where is my son?"

"Young Master Caliondo is on his way home," answered the castellan. "The _Gimilnitîr_ has sailed into the Haven less than an hour ago. The young master will be in a presentable state shortly."

"Good," said Herucalmo. "We shall need his insight; and that of Captain Atanalcar. Send them in as soon as they arrive. Oh, and find me Nimir; that cursed Elf is getting harder to get hold of with each passing day. I want him here as well."

"Certainly, my Lord," Master Indilzar bowed deeply and backed off.

A moment later the doors of the Greet Hall were tossed open and the castellan announced the noble visitors.

"Lord Manwendil, Second Consul of Umbar, and his wife, the Lady Avradî."

In came a richly clad couple that would have easily fitted among the noblest courtiers of Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth… both by their appearance and their rich garments. Lord Manwendil, scion of one of the oldest families of the Realm, was easily as tall as his host, albeit a little softer around his midriff, due to a more comfortable life that he led. Yet he could not have denied his Númenórean origins, even if he wanted. In his early seventies, he still barely looked a day older than fifty, his black hair, shorn above his shoulders, not yet touched by grey. His face nobly featured, even though those features had become somewhat slack with age lately, were dominated by a pair of keen grey eyes that saw everything and judged everyone, always looking out for opportunities that he could use to his advantage.

His lady, nearly twenty years his junior, was a classical Dúnadan beauty: tall, raven-haired and grey-eyed like her husband, with pale skin like mother-of-pearl and even, slightly sharp features. Her ancestors had been one of the blackest of the Black Númenóreans – after all, what other family would have had the cheek to give their daughter the name of the Lady of the Stars herself? – and she could count her ancestors back to a Castamirian female line and had family ties in Pelargir, too; close ones.

As much as the nobles of Gondor disliked admitting it, there _were_ still intricate networks of family and business ties between the old families in Pelargir and Umbar, respectively, despite the millennia-long contest of the two cities for maritime and trade supremacy. In his own way, Pelargir was almost as old – and in certain aspects every bit as wicked – as Umbar was said to be, and their old families were blood-conscious enough to intermarry, instead of further diluting the Dúnadan bloodlines by mingling with lesser people. Ever since the Castamirian period, Umbar had been trying to keep the bloodlines as pure as possible, in direct opposition to earlier practices.

Unfortunately, this had led to a great deal of inbreeding, and as a consequence, many ancient families had become childless in recent generations. Lord Manwendil's House was one of those in which the Númenórean heritage had grown too weak to be handed down to the next generation. Lord Herucalmo's line was one of the few fortunate ones still capable of producing heirs, which had earned him additional respect in the noblest circles.

This fact, however, did not make him respect his fellow consul and his lady any less. 'Twas not their fault, after all; though it was their great personal tragedy. Thus Lord Herucalmo greeted his guests with the utmost respect and offered them seats at the far end of the Great Hall, where no-one could have eavesdropped on them.

His trusted manservant, Ulbar, came with refreshments. Ulbar was an elderly man who had grown up with his lord and was of Dúnadan heritage himself, although not nobly born. Coming from a lesser line, he showed definite sings of aging, although he was several years younger than his master. Herucalmo had trusted very few people in his long life, but he did trust Ulbar unconditionally; and rightly so.

The elderly servant offered the guests sharp, yellow wine, imported from Belfalas, and some Haradric sweetmeats that had become very fashionable in the recent decades. The Second Consul and his lady accepted the refreshments graciously, and for a while they discussed with Herucalmo trade negotiations, tidings from far-away lands and local gossip; such small matters that were, nonetheless, important for those who ruled the Realm. They _needed_ to know what was going on both within and beyond the borders, so that they would be prepared for everything and could act accordingly.

Finally, when they had nearly run out of topics, Master Indilzar entered again and cleared his throat discretely.

"Captain Atanalcar and Master Caliondo have arrived, _khôr nîn_," he said, stepping aside to allow said people to enter.

In came two men who could hardly be more different. Caliondo, Lord Herucalmo's heir and only son, was in his early thirties – although, in typical Dúnadan fashion, he looked considerably younger. A tall, broad-shouldered, coldly handsome young man, with the thick, raven black hair (shorn above his shoulders in Gondorian fashion to blend in more easily when visiting the ports of the South-kingdom) and the keen, sea-grey eyes of those of Númenórean descent, albeit tinted with just a little green. His long torso sported a sleeveless surcoat of heavy, figured silk brocade, so deep blue in its hue that it almost looked black. Under that he was wearing black breeches and a bag-sleeved shirt of raw, undyed silk. His short locks were held together by a narrow circlet of some white metal that looked like silver but was, in fact, made of _mithril_ – an old family heirloom, war-booty from Gondor and worn by the firstborn of their House all the time.

The other man – the Captain of the Haven of Umbar by title, yet the admiral of their Fleet in truth – was past forty and clearly had some desert blood in his veins. He was thin like a Haradric blade, yet strong, tall and muscular, as if the hardships of a life spent upon the Sea and constant exercise had left none of the softer parts of the human form, reducing his whole body to brawn, bones and sinews. His high features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt into a deep tan, almost to black, by constant exposure to the Southern sun upon the Sea. His keen, piercing obsidian eyes told in every glance a tale of difficulties subdued and dangers dared. A deep, diagonal scar on his brow gave additional sternness to his hawkish face and a sinister expression to one of his eyes, which had been injured on the same occasion. His vision, too, was slightly distorted on that eye; not that such small obstacles would lessen his efficiency in any way. His blue-black hair was braided away from his face; the braids held together on the top of his head by a broad, golden clasp, making him look a bit as people would expect a Corsair captain to look.

Nonetheless, Captain Atanalcar, son of a local nobleman and a Haradric princess, was much more than a mere pirate. He was the third most powerful man in Umbar, outranking even Caliondo, who was, after all, being groomed to take over as First Consul one day. Accordingly, he had the same rich attire as all the lords present, only in sea grey and black, and he even wore a knee-length shirt of the finest – and strongest – chain mail the best Haradric weaponsmiths could produce under his surcoat.

Acknowledging the Captain's rank and importance, Lord Herucalmo rose from his seat to greet the man – and his own son and heir – properly.

"Welcome, my lords..." he began in High Adûnaic, that differed greatly from the bastardized version spoken by the common folk on the streets, that had been much mixed with Haradric during the recent centuries; then he interrupted himself and looked around in annoyance. "Where is that cursed Elf again?"

"I am here, Master," a soft, lyrical voice answered, and a black-clad figure stepped forth from a shadowy corner.

It was a male Elf, almost a head shorter than his master, distinguished by the large, slanted eyes and elegantly shaped, pointy ears of his immortal kind. Yet those eyes were not grey as one would have routinely expected from an Elf, but coal black; and while his face was pale and Elven-fair, his features were sharp and angular. He wore his long, raven-black hair in a topknot, which emphasized the leaf-shape of his ears. He did not need to cover them; he could blend with the shadows like no-one else.

"Must you always lurk in the shadow like a ghost?" groused Lord Herucalmo. As much as it had proved advantageous to have an Elf oath-bound to serve his family, it unnerved him sometimes how the creature practically existed in the twilight.

"Is that not what I am?" replied the Elf with a faint, wintry smile that made all Men present shiver. "A ghost of your House's past, doomed to haunt these halls 'til the end of Arda?"

Indeed, he had served the family for over two hundred years. Which was another advantage of having an Elf in one's service: they did not die, unless killed, nor did they grow old or lose their strength. And not even death would have freed this particular Elf from eternal servitude. The nature of his oath, reinforced by sorcery, had been such that even his disembodied spirit would be bound to his master's House, until released from his bond.

This was a truth well known by everyone present, which usually made the noble visitors quite uncomfortable around the Elf; a reaction Lord Herucalmo counted on. It was one of the reasons why he wanted the Elf to be there; it never harmed to remind even one's closest allies where the true power lay. Now that he had reached the desired effect, he signalled his bondsman to withdraw, and the Elf merged with the shadows noiselessly again.

"Now, perchance we can begin," said the First Consul. "More than eighty years have passed since the troops of my grandsire failed to permanently annex the desert inlands of Harondor to the Realm. As a result, we have had our relative freedom from Agannâlo; clearly, Zigûr no longer considered us competition for his plans against the West. However, it seems that the Shadow has begun to grow in Agannâlo again, stretching out over the realms of the South – including ours. There have been sightings of Orcs along the southern fences of the Ephel Dúath; and while we do not mind them bothering Gondor – in truth, we encourage it, as it strengthens our own position – we do _not_ want them on _our_ borders. Not even in the deserted lands beyond those borders."

"But why would Zigûr want to threaten us with his fell servants?" asked Lord Manwendil in confusion. "What possible quarrel could he have with us? We have ever served his purposes; ever since our great city has been rebuilt."

"Perchance he is not satisfied with our eagerness to serve him," said the Lady Avradî thoughtfully. "You cannot deny, my lords, that while allying ourselves with Agannâlo, we have first and foremost served our own interests. And as our Realm is the one that once witnessed Zigûr's defeat and humiliation by our own King, we never worshipped him the way those superstitious Haradric barbarians do."

"Save from the Cult of the Death Eater," commented Captain Atanalcar dryly. Lady Avradî nodded.

"True. And I believe the Cult is receiving ever-growing support from Agannâlo itself, as a way to infiltrate the Realm and take over from the inside."

Lord Herucalmo raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Whatever makes you believe _that_, my lady?"

Lady Avradî smiled, her smile cold and cruel. "You are not the only one with eyes and ears… and other senses, my lord Consul. You have your Dark Elf, and I… I have my cats. I am certain that you, too, have heard the name that is being whispered when speech turns to the Cult," she lowered her voice 'til it could scarcely be heard. With hardly more than a breath, she formed it. "The name of Herumor?"

Lord Herucalmo swallowed hard, unable to answer right away. He just stared at her with amazement and more than a little fear. It was not so as if he would lack the courage of his forefathers who had sailed with Ar-Pharazôn the Golden to fight –and defeat – Zigûrun, but the stark terror of the Cult sat deep in his bones. _Everyone_ in their right minds feared the Cult and what it would mean; more so those familiar with the terrible events before the Downfall.

"I see that you have," said the Lady Avradî with a grim smile. "And you seem astonished that _I have_ heard it also."

"Quite astonished indeed," replied Lord Herucalmo, finding his voice after the first shock. "How has this name reached you, my Lady? For I have the keen eyes and ears of my Elf who walks in the shadows like a ghost; and while your cats may be able to walk in dark places as well, they cannot master Man's speech and could not have, therefore, told you that name."

"You forget that Queen Berúthiel was not the only daughter of Anadûnê who could bind certain beasts to her will and see through their eyes," she answered. "True, there are but a few of us left in these lesser days; but those who _are_ still there, we can still use the secret arts to our advantage."

"The Dark Arts, you mean," muttered the First Consul.

Lady Avradî shrugged nonchalantly. "You may see them as dark; but they are older than the Realm itself, and they have little to naught to do with the Cult."

"If you say so," said young Lord Caliondo sarcastically.

The lady gave him a chilling look that could have frozen the fire chamber of the Urîd êphalak over. "I say so, for that is the truth. Stay quiet in the presence of thine elders, youngling when thou know not whereof thou speaketh."

Caliondo was about to give an angry – and perchance unwise – answer, but his father stopped him, with a raised hand.

"What have you learnt?" asked the First Consul.

"Very little, alas," the lady admitted. "Little more than the name itself has reached me; for the matter has been kept as secret as cunning can contrive."

"_Whose_ cunning?" asked her husband, the Second Consul, quietly, his face deathly pale with fear. The lady shrugged, as if she would not be bothered by the tidings at all; but those who knew her well could see that she was, in truth, afraid.

"Why, those who have heard the call of the name, of, course," she said. "They are not many yet, to set against the rightful leaders of the Realm, but the number is growing. Not all are content with the last eight decades of relative peace, and fewer now are afraid of the powers of Gondor, now that the strength of he South-kingdom is waning. Tales of our former greatness are re-told, and the wish to reach that greatness again is voiced time and again."

Lord Manwendil shook his head, dejected. "The fools," he said. "The inconsiderate fools. They would go to outright war with Gondor, based on a call coming from the Lord of Lies, using up our own Realm to serve the interests of Agannâlo. Do you know any of those who have listened to the call?"

Lord Herucalmo shook his head. "Not I. All _I have_ heard is that certain people – clad in black, hooded cloaks – meet in dark alleys sometimes; and they would go to the ruins of the old Temple of Mbelekôro, where it once had been raised around the end of the Second Age."

"That cursed place still exists?" asked Caliondo in surprise.

His father nodded. "The Temple itself may be in ruins, but its foundations still stand. They have been forged by dark sorcery, by Zigûr himself, when he usurped leadership over the Ancient Realm; they say that – just like Barad-dûr – the Temple cannot be destroyed. Not as long as Zigûr still dwells in Middle-earth, and now that he is gaining back his strength, the Cult is rearing its ugly head again."

"Only that this time, 'tis not Mbelekôro in whose name they perform their dark rites," added the Lady Avradî, "but Zigûr himself. _He is_ the Death Eater now, whom Herumor feels the need to feed with lives."

She paused, letting the ramifications sink in. All those present (even the Elf, through his long acquaintance with Lord Herucalmo's House) knew what the Cult of Mbelekôro had been like, back in Anadûnê before its downfall. They all knew of the mighty temple Zigûrun had caused to be built upon the hill in the midst of the city of the Adûnâim, Armenelos the Golden; and of the altar of fire in its centre, from where a great smoke had gone up all the time, blackening the domed silver roof of the Temple. And of the spilling of blood with torment and great wickedness, with which Men had made sacrifices to Mbelekôro that he should release them from Death.

The same thing had been repeated, albeit on a much smaller scale, in Umbarlond, during the centuries after the Downfall, while the great lords Herumor and Fuinur had ruled not Umbar alone but also the neighbouring Haradric realms, in Zigûr's name. And the mere fact that the name Herumor had been whispered in dark alleys again was truly black news for all those who wished to keep Umbar an independent sovereignty on its own, instead of the doormat of Zigûr, or simply one of the Haradric realms.

"Is there word about people disappearing?" asked Lord Herucalmo.

"There has been some small disquiet, down at the Haven," replied Captain Atanalcar, whose duty it was to know about such things. "A few fishermen have disappeared, and also a small ship of the Fleet. Perchance 'tis just peace making things slack. They might have gone off on some ploy of their own, without leave and without a pilot, and they might have drowned. After all, these coasts are not safe for the unskilled."

"Yet you believe not that it was so," said the First Consul. It was not a question.

The Captain of the Haven shook his head grimly. "Nay, I do not. Those men were _not_ unskilled. The fishermen who have gone missing grew up on the Sea, and the vessel was one of my best scouts. Besides, there have been no storms off the coasts for quite a while."

"You believe then they were taken," said Lord Herucalmo darkly. "Taken and used to feed the Death Eater."

Atanalcar nodded. "And to weaken the Fleet at the same time, knowing of their loyalty to us. I fear that further attacks against fishermen and sailors can be expected. The Fleet is our only true strength; without it, we are all but helpless."

"Then we need a way to strengthen the Fleet," said Lord Manwendil, "while trying to figure out who is behind the renewal of the Cult."

"That is not hard to guess," pointed out Caliondo impatiently. "'Twas Zigûr who has ever forced the Cult upon us."

"True," agreed the Lady Avradî, "but he would hardly leave his dark tower to do this personally. This Herumor person, whoever he might be, is the key to the Cult. We must find him and remove him from the game board, ere it is too late."

"If we can," corrected Lord Herucalmo. "While he does bear a Man's name – and one that once belonged to a great lord – he might be something different entirely."

"You mean a Nazgûl?" asked Lord Manwendil, his smooth, fleshy countenance suddenly sickly white with fear. The First Consul shrugged, his face hard and grim.

"'Twould not be the first time, would it? To find out the truth, we need to infiltrate the Cult, though."

While the others were thinking the same, they shivered hearing the idea put into words nonetheless. The poor wretch chosen for _that_ task would be doomed from the beginning.

"Send in your Elf," suggested Atanalcar.

"I cannot," replied Lord Herucalmo. "They would not tolerate an Elf among them. Not even a Dark Elf. They'd recognize him and slay him; and he is of no use for me as a ghost. Nay, I have a better idea," he hit the small bronze bell hanging from a window frame. "Send me in Rasheed," he ordered old Ulbar.

The man following his summons was the captain of his guards; the bastard son of an Umbari nobleman of _very_ old blood and a Haradric slave girl. An unusually tall man with a heavy bone structure, long, muscular arms and an arrogant bearing that revealed that he had not built those arms by doing lowly labour but by extensive weapons training; his stature was that of a swordsman.

His hair, close-cropped like that of a slave, although he was none, had the colour of blackened corn silk and looked even darker around his tanned, hawkish features. His crystalline blue, nearly transparent eyes watched everything at once, seeking out potential dangers that might threaten his master. His mother had been from the desert lands, the ones beyond even Khambaluk, which explained his strange eyes; in everything else, he bore a strong resemblance to his sire who had never acknowledged him. The blood-consciousness, brought to Umbar by the Castamirioni, was still strong in the old families, and bastards were, as a rule, cast out.

On the other hand, the blood of such bastards was still deemed good enough for them to be highly sought after as personal guards and shield-mates for noblemen… usually ones on unfriendly terms with the family that had rejected them. Which was how Rasheed had come to be taken into Lord Herucalmo's service.

However, his status within the First Consul's household was an exceptional one, and the fact that he did not bow or prostrate himself in any other way servants would be supposed to, clearly showed that. He simply – though respectfully enough – inclined his head in Lord Herucalmo's direction, ignoring everyone else in the room… even the Heir of the House.

"My Lord," he said; his voice was deep and rough as it is often heard among desert people, though not this near the Sea, "how may I serve you?"

"In a way no-one else could, as always," replied the First Consul. "I am sending you in mortal danger… and expect you to come back unharmed."

A faint, self-confident smile appeared on that handsome face and was gone almost in the same moment.

"I thrive on danger, my Lord," he said, "as you know."

Lord Herucalmo nodded. "I do; or else I would not have chosen you for this task. I want you to sneak into the Cult of the Death Eater for me. They are stirring again, in dark corners where Ûrî never shines; and I would know what they are planning, so that we can hit them, and hit them hard, ere they would grow too strong."

Any other man would have blanched with terror given such a task and begged to be spared. Rasheed, however, simply nodded and turned his attention to the details at once.

"How am I to find them?" he asked. "And how am I to make them believe that I would wish to join them? 'Tis known all across the Realm that you do not look at the Cult fondly, my Lord… and that I am but your extended hand."

"Nimir will help you to find their gathering place," answered Lord Herucalmo. "He has been watching the Cult for me for quite some time. As for making them believe… we shall start rumours that you have been unhappy with your status in my household for years; that you despise the ways I run thing here. That you believe me to have grown weak and lazy and over-confidant. Your skills are well-known in the city; people would try to win you over as soon as the rumours begin to spread."

Rasheed pulled an unhappy face. He did not like his loyalties being questioned, not even if the disguise served his master; and even less did he like to work with the Dark Elf, who, frankly, made his skin crawl. But he could not choose the tasks assigned to him; that was the right of his master, by whom he was owned, body, soul and blood. He might not be a slave by name, but he had sworn an oath every bit as binding as that of the Elf… with the significant difference that _he_ had done so voluntarily. Thus the thought of disobeying or even protesting against the task – against _any_ task given him by his master – had not even occurred to him.

"I shall do as my Lord orders," he said simply.

Lord Herucalmo nodded. He had expected nothing less from his chief guard; nor deemed him needful to promise Rasheed any kind of reward.

"That is well," he said. "Now, be gone, the two of you, and discuss strategies. I shall expect your plan by the hour before sunset. See that you have one by then."

He dismissed them with an authoritative gesture. Rasheed inclined his head and left, the Elf following him like a shadow – a black and ominous one.

* * *

Having dealt with his servants, Lord Herucalmo turned his attention back to his guests and allies.

"That is one thing hopefully dealt with, soon," he said. "However, it appears to me that we might have a struggle on two fronts at our hands, soon."

The others looked at him with a confused frown at first. Then Captain Atanalcar realized what their host was talking about and nodded in grim understanding.

"Bakshir," he said, without elaborating. Lord Herucalmo nodded.

"Bakshir indeed. As you know, _Kha-kan _Isfhandijár died last year; slain in some local battle, protecting the borders of the realm against nomadic raiders from the Eastern Desert. As far as we know, _Padisákh_ Tahamtan has chosen his firstborn, Bakhtijár, to step into his place. As it is custom among the _Hiung-nu_, the legitimate sons of the dead lord have most likely driven out and slain the concubines and bastards of their sire. I must therefore accept that my beloved daughter is dead, as she was war booty and not a proper wife. That I have not heard of her or of her little son ever since the reports of Isfhandijár's dead can only mean that they have both been killed."

"What a terrible loss," murmured the Lady Avradî. Yearning for children one could not become was bad enough; having had one's children killed was a hundred times worse.

"And not for our friend only," added Lord Manwendil grimly. "As Isfhandijár was very fond of the Lady Rothinzil, he favoured Umbar for her sake. He had the _padisákh_'s ear as well, and he also spoke of Umbar with preference. His sons, young, power-hungry and fired on by their jealous mothers, would do the exact opposite. Umbar's position against the Haradric realms will suffer if the one holding the overlordship turns against us."

"That is what I fear, too," agreed Lord Herucalmo. "And that is why we need to look out for other strong allies."

"What do you have on your mind, my Lord Consul?" asked Captain Atanalcar. "The second-strongest realm would be Khambaluk; but my mother's people traditionally look towards Far-Harad when it comes to seeking out alliances."

"Neither would they be able to hurry to our aid when needs must be," added Caliondo thoughtfully. "For that, Khambaluk simply lies too far from our borders."

"That is very true, on both points," said Lord Herucalmo. "We need an ally that is strong, can move considerable forces when in need, and can be found near at hand_._

"I fear the only realm that could match all those criteria would be Gondor," Lord Manwendil pointed out. "And I doubt very much that we could ally ourselves with our arch-enemy of several millennia."

"Not with Gondor," said his lady wife as sudden realization hit her. "But perchance Dol Amroth. That _could_ work. Dor-en-Ernil might be a province of Gondor, but the Prince of Dol Amroth is an independent monarch with a demesne of his own; _and_ they have the strongest fleet, save ours. It would be a good match…"

"… _if_ we could persuade Prince Angelimir to break his oath of fealty to the Steward of Gondor and ally himself with his chief rival," finished Lord Manwendil. "I do not think that would be possible, though. Prince Angelimir is old; yet he is no fool. And the House of Dol Amroth has no reason to look at us with friendship. After all, several of its Princes have been slain in battle against our people. Angelimir will never agree to such an alliance."

"Not if we _ask_ him," said Lord Herucalmo in agreement. "However, I am planning a different approach… one along family lines."

"Oh," the eyes of the Lady Avradî began to gleam. "I see what you mean, my Lord Consul."

"Well, _I_ do not," groused Lord Manwendil. "Pray speak clearly, Herucalmo. I find that I tire of your games."

"Prince Angelimir, as you have said yourself, is _old_," explained the First Consul. "More than a hundred; and that is a high age, even for _his_ family. He still holds the title in name, yet the real power lies in the hands of his son and heir, Prince Adrahil. A man in his prime, an excellent warlord and diplomat… with _two_ daughters in marriageable age, while I have a son who has not yet taken a wife."

"And you believe Adrahil would be amendable to marry off any daughter of his to Caliondo?" Lord Manwendil shook his head in disbelief. "I do not think he would willingly do that."

"Mayhap not," allowed Lord Herucalmo. "But again, I do not intend to _ask_ him, either," he glanced at the Captain of the Haven. "Captain Atanalcar, this is something the two of us will have to discuss in great detail."

A rakish grin split the tanned face of the adventurous Sea lord as he contemplated the possible meaning of _that_.

"My Lord Consul, I am at your disposal," he declared.

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2: Pelargir

**Sea-Flower**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Rating:** Adults I think. Too much politics and violence for young readers.

**Author's notes: **Just for reference: Ecthelion II is 82 years old in this story, Denethor is 38, Thorongil is 37, Finduilas is 18, her father Adrahil is 41, Adrahil's wife, the Lady Olwen is 38, and Imrahil is 13. All these details are canon facts.

It is stated in "HoME 12 – The Peoples of Middle-earth" that Denethor indeed had two older sisters. However, their names – or, in fact, anything about their fates – are not given. I named them Faelivrin (56) and Eledhwen (42), based on the Gondorian custom of recycling First Age names, and made Eledhwen the mother of Húrin of the Keys.

Lady Tirathiel is an OFC of Isabeau's. Her former relationship (of the purely platonic kind) with Denethor is my doing and has been established in several of my stories.

* * *

**Chapter 02 – Pelargir**

If Umbar, as people in Gondor liked to say, was the oldest and most wicked city of the Realm, then Pelargir was certainly not far beyond, either in age or in other things. The Garth of Royal Ships had been built in the last millennium of the Second Age, as a haven of the Faithful – great lords of Númenor who opposed the direction the Kings of Westernesse had taken at that time and remained true to the instructions of the Valar and friends to the Elves of Tol Eressëa.

The city lay upon the wedge of land between Anduin the Great and the mouth of the River Sirith. It had been an important beachhead from where the Númenóreans set sail to explore and conquer lesser realms along the coastal line and on the banks of Anduin, and it became an even greater haven in the days of the Ship-Kings of Gondor. King Tarannon Falastur built a great house there, with its roots in the water which he so dearly loved, and even though the capital had always remained Osgiliath, for a long time Pelargir had been the centre of Gondor's unparalleled power on the Sea. This was where the great fleet of King Eärnil I had been built, with the main purpose to conquer the city's greatest rival: Umbar, the seat of the Third Realm in Exile.

After the Kin-strife, Pelargir's military importance had gradually lessened until it became a city of merchants, but it kept its considerable importance both for Gondor and even the supposedly hostile realms of Umbar, Khand and Harad. Its strategic location made it eminently suited to host trade negotiations with such people who would not be welcome in Minas Tirith itself, like the heads of the great Haradric merchant guilds, caravan owners from Khand or independent merchants from Umbar.

It also served as a place where the Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth could meet to discuss urgent issues of the South-kingdom, meeting half-way between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, so that they could meet as equals and both save half the journey. In the late spring of the year 2968 of the Third Age, the city was once again serving this particular purpose.

The great house of Tarannon Falastur was still standing – or rather it had been rebuilt several times and still looked the same, at least if one could believe the ancient records – and served as the meeting place for the most powerful lords of Gondor. It was surrounded by a tall, imposing wall of withered stone, built like an impenetrable fortress; but inside the wall the building itself was elegant and beautiful, its four wings surrounding a large courtyard and a central garden, with porches running all around.

The Dol Amroth party had sailed along the coast of Belfalas and then up the Anduin, sparing themselves the long ride across Dor-en-Ernil. The unit of Swan Knights, clad in their blue surcoats with the white swanship embroidered upon their breasts, offered a magnificent sight as they rode up from the harbour to the King's House, wherein they would reside, together with Prince Adrahil and his wife the Lady Olwen. They had not had to subject their horses to the hardship of sea travel; the Prince of Dol Amroth had his own townhouse in Pelargir, complete with stables, spare horses and the hostlers and stable boys who took care of the noble beasts in his absence. The Prince and his family only stayed in the King's House when he visited Pelargir in his official function.

Steward Ecthelion – the second Ruling Steward by that name – arrived a day later, flanked by his son and heir, Denethor, and his younger daughter, the Lady Eledhwen, who also represented her husband, Lord Barahir of the Keys. In the absence of both the Steward and his heir, the Warden of the Keys had to remain behind in Minas Tirith as a guarant for the safety of the White City.

Having paid a visit to Lord Forlyn's walled town, Carvossonn, where the South Road crossed the River Erui, the Steward and his entourage – with the exception of his wife, the Lady Mairen, who had remained in Lossarnach – had ridden down the samesome Road 'til Pelargir, laying back nearly one hundred and fifty miles with only a few short breaks. Few other men beyond eighty would have had the strength to do that, but Ecthelion was of the noblest Dúnadan stock, and though his hair had turned silver for quite a while, he still could bear the burdens of the Road like any lesser Man half his age.

As their arrival had been announced well in advance, there was quite a crowd gathered to greet them at the ancient stone bridge that spanned the River Sirith in the same manner the remains of it mangled counterpart connected the ruins of Osgiliath. And all that had come to see them agreed that the sight was well worth the wait.

The Steward and his heir were clad for travel but still managed to look most impressive in their identical, severely plain tunics of the finest black wool, the hem, placket and sleeves of which were embroidered with a leafy pattern in silver. Their plain linen shirts underneath were dyed a light green-grey, ideal for the exhausting journey. Their breeches were of leather, also dyed grey, and they wore knee-high riding boots of supple black leather. Black were their hooded cloaks, too, with the image of the White Tree embroidered on their backs. They rode identical blue roan horses, the bridles of which were seamed with silver tassels.

The Lady Eledhwen was clad in a similar fashion, despite her rank and gender. She rode astride her silver-coated mare in male fashion. Her long black skirt was split in the front and the back to the hip, so that it would not hinder her in riding. Underneath it she wore black leggings and riding boots, just like her father and her brother. Her surcoat was a deep burgundy red, seamed with gold ribbon, and her hooded black coat was held together by an enamelled golden broche in the shape of a rose. Her heavy sheaf of black hair was intricately braided, coiled around her head and covered by a gilded net that was scattered with small white gemstones.

The gathered crowd greeted them with joyous cries – Ecthelion was well-loved by his subjects and so were his children – and some of the younger ones even ran after their party as it rode up the main road of the city to the King's House, followed by the carriages with their supplies. Those were the wealthiest areas of Pelargir, with the townhouses of ancient, noble families fronting the wide, tree-framed alleys.

There, in front of the King's House, a different crowd was waiting for their arrival. Nobles and rich merchants, foreign emissaries and guild masters – all the wealthy and the influential of the city had come to see their Steward and be seen by him. Knowing of the importance of their loyalty, Ecthelion held on for a few moments to greet them and thank them for coming.

This was, among other things, a great opportunity to show them that he was still of full strength and more than capable of holding the reins in his own hands; but also that his heir had grown strong enough to take over if necessary. A reassurance for his own subjects as well as a thinly-veiled message for the ever-present eyes and ears of Umbar.

The call of silver trumpets greeted them from the walls, and the heavy doors of the House were tossed open, allowing them to ride into the courtyard, followed by their guards. Within, servants and stable boys came running to take care of their horses and their baggage and to escort them to their chambers – not that they would need help to find them. Tradition demanded that the Steward's family would occupy the royal suite, seeing that he ruled in the name of the King, and that there had not been a King in Gondor for centuries. But tradition also demanded that they got served properly, and so it was easier to accept the escort than to debate its necessity.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the guest wing of the House, the party of Dol Amroth was preparing themselves for the first meeting with the Steward and his family. The party was led by Prince Adrahil, as his father, the current Ruling Prince, no longer left his home if he could avoid it. At the age of a hundred and two, Prince Angelimir of Dol Amroth was still in excellent health and had all his wits about him, thanks to the thin trail of Elven blood trickling in his veins, but the older he got, the more he valued his comfort and his familiar surroundings.

Besides, Adrahil was old and experienced enough to discuss the matters of the Realm with the Steward, despite being only a few years older than Ecthelion's heir. Not that either of them would show his true age, though. Dúnadan and – on Adrahil's side – Elven blood ensured that they would look an indeterminate age of roughly thirty for at least half a century yet to come.

The same could not be said of the Lady Olwen. Adrahil's wife came from the ancient folk of the Enedrim – from the local nobility of Dor-en-Ernil – and while her family had lived in the town of Fortir since the Second Age as the lead clan of the warrior aristocracy, their lives were not as long as those of pure-blooded Dúnedain. Therefore the Lady Olwen, albeit still lovely and youthful in her late thirties, already looked slightly older than her husband, even though they were roughly of the same age.

Of their three children, their young son Imrahil came entirely after his father. Tall and strong for his thirteen years, yet of an almost Elven grace and with enough mischief on his mind for an army of street urchins, he was raven-haired and grey-eyed like all his Númenórean sires. Finduilas, now barely eighteen, had inherited her mother's dark eyes and gentle features, paired with her father's strength of will and iron backbone.

As for Ivriniel, their eldest… Lady Olwen suppressed a sigh. Ivriniel was nothing like her siblings. Nothing like any other girl she had ever seen.

Tall and slender like a young tree, with a pale skin like mother-of-pearl, straight, silky hair like black ink and the most striking green eyes one could imagine, Ivriniel looked more like an Elf than a mortal woman. Her stunning beauty was paired with a sharp, inquisitive mind and a hunger for knowledge that surpassed everything else.

Imrahil being born as the first (and only) son almost a decade after her, she had long been considered the heir apparent for the throne of Dol Amroth; more so as Imrahil had been a sickly child and Lady Olwen could no longer hope to carry any other children after having almost died in childbirth with him. So both Ivriniel and Finduilas had been taught everything a son would need to know.

By the time they could be reasonably certain that Imrahil had outgrown his childhood weakness, Ivriniel had become well-versed in ancient lore and had learned to wield a sword like a man, too. And while she _had_ accepted that Dol Amroth would be better served by a male heir, as Númenórean hereditary law was only valid within their demesne in these days, she had also become somewhat resentful that her prowess and wisdom would remain unused.

But perhaps it had not all been in vain, thought Lady Olwen, laying out the dresses for her daughters to wear at the evening meal with the help of her ladies-in-waiting. Perchance, if the plan of Steward Ecthelion and Prince Angelimir went well, Ivriniel could put her wisdom and training to good use – as the wife of Ecthelion's heir.

_If_ they could persuade those two of the advantage of such an alliance, that is.

* * *

"Are you truly certain that it will work?" asked the Master of Pelargir his father-in-law and the future Prince of Dol Amroth doubtfully. They were sitting in what had once been the lesser council chamber of the Kings, having a brief, informal get-together ere the actual discussions would start.

Lorindol son of Bregolas, the Lord of Lebennin, was a proud Dúnadan noble in his prime and husband to Ecthelion's eldest daughter, the Lady Faelivrin. He was also an officer whose rank was akin to that of a royal admiral and who wore the title of _the Ciryatur_: a name that reached back in time to the Kings of Númenor.

Given the troubled history of the harbour, Pelargir was treated as a separate fiefdom, independent from the rest of Lebennin, and the Ciryatur had been the most loyal military officer since the times of Mardil Voronwë. Rank and office were _not_ hereditary, although an able and loyal son _could_ inherit his father's position.

It was unusual – albeit not unheard-of – that the Lord of Lebennin would also bear the office of the Ciryatur. It had happened before. Besides, the Master of Pelargir had unchallenged power only over the great warships stationed in his harbour and their crew. The city itself was ruled by the Town Council: a ruling body consisting of the heads of the major guilds – especially the very influential merchants and shipwrights – _and_ several royal officers from Minas Tirith, as Pelargir, at least on parchment, still counted as royal property. This was an effective way to avoid the most important harbour getting under unwanted influence again, as the various interests balanced out each other fairly well and ensured that the harbour remained loyal to the Sceptre.

Even without the rank and title of the Ciryatur, Lord Lorindol was a very important nobleman, whose voice had a lot of weight. He was the hereditary ruler of Lebennin, after all, and had his traditional seat in Linhir, the second most important town and port of the province, now under the rule of his older son, Gewelon.

Under normal circumstances the Lord of Lebennin would have been the political counterbalance of the Ciryatur. However, in the face of the growing threat from both Umbar and Mordor, Ecthelion had decided some fifteen years previously that Gondor's forces needed to be more tightly bundled and entrusted Lorindol with the responsibility for the harbour.

So far it had proved a good decision. Lorindol had dealt successfully with all the problems that had emerged in the years in-between, growing in power and respect not only in the eyes of his subjects but also among his fellow nobles. Thanks to the taxes of the _Hanse of Lebennin_, the most powerful merchant's guild in Gondor, he also had the coin to keep the harbour in a good shape.

The Steward of Gondor nodded. "I am fairly certain about that, yea. I know that Princess Ivriniel is said to be a strong-willed young lady; stubborn even, and better veiled in the art of ruling than any male heir the Prince of Dol Amroth could ever hope for. But that is good so; for a meek and easily frightened wife would not last long on the side of my son. He needs someone who is his equal, both in the sharpness of her mind and the strength of her will."

"Would Tirathiel of Belfalas not have filled those requirements?" asked the Lord of Lebennin. "And she is of Dúnadan heritage, too."

"She would," said Ecthelion, "and we would have taken her in with open arms. But the two could rarely agree in anything; they were fighting and arguing all the time – and the family of the Steward must show a united front."

"I would think both Denethor and Tirathiel intelligent enough to understand _that_," said Lord Lorindol.

"'Tis not a question if intelligence but of stubborn pride," explained the Steward. "My son would never give in to Tirathiel. He would, however, respect a Princess of Dol Amroth enough to back off, if needs must be."

"Are you truly certain about that?" the Lord of Lebennin found it hard to imagine Denethor backing off from _anyone_.

The Steward nodded grimly. "Oh, yea. Our House has sworn a solemn oath to serve royal blood, regardless of the direction it may come from. And Dol Amroth has intermarried with Anárion's line repeatedly. 'Tis not enough to stake a claim for the Winged Crown but still closer than any claim the House of Húrin might stake."

"And such an alliance would unite the two thin trails of royal blood still present in Gondor," realised Lord Lorindol. This was a wise plan indeed.

The Steward nodded again. "That would be the idea, yea. Let us hope those two shall find it – and each other – acceptable. For I would not force my only son into a loveless bond, not even for the good of Gondor. The example of Tarannon Falastur and Queen Berúthiel should be a proper enough warning how such things can go terribly wrong."

"King Tarannon Falastur was an exceptionally strong-willed, harsh and demanding man, or so the Annals tell us," reminded him Lord Lorindol.

"So is my son," replied the Steward. "And while Gondor will greatly benefit from his strength and wisdom, or so I hope, he will need a tempering influence while dealing with our people."

"I am not certain that Prince Ivriniel _can_ be that influence," said Lord Lorindol thoughtfully. "She is an imperious lady, used to have the deciding word and to be obeyed; _softness_ is not a trait I would think of when speaking of her."

"'Tis not softness that is needed," answered Ecthelion. "Strength and endurance are, if one has to soothe Denethor's tempers."

"I hope you are right, Adar," though not young enough – at least not in Númenórean terms – to actually be Ecthelion's son, Lorindol willingly gave his father-in-law that special honorific title. "The future of Gondor may depend on this match."

Ecthelion nodded. "True. But I trust my son to choose wisely."

* * *

Dinner at the King's House in Pelargir was a festive event whenever the House entertained noble guests. Having the Steward's family _and_ royalty in the House at the same time inspired the cooks to new heights, producing a menu in which the traditional custom of eating fish and seafood with every meal was combined with the exotic dishes and spices that originated from the Haradri quarter of the Merchant District.

The noble guests gathered in the Feasting Hall were accordingly decked out in their royal splendour. Lady Olwen and her daughters wore beautifully crafted bliauts with wide, trailing sleeves, the cut and delicate embroidery of which spoke of Elven influence. Or they might have been Elven handiwork entirely. Dol Amroth was the only fiefdom in Gondor that still kept regular contact with the Elves of Edhellond, after all, whose lord, Gildor Inglorion, had been the guardian of every Prince of Dol Amroth, since the ancient days of Imrazôr the Númenórean.

In any case, the gowns of the ladies were breath-takingly beautiful, made of the finest silk that could be achieved in the far eastern realm of Khambaluk, brought by Haradri mercers directly to Dol Amroth. They had a similar cut and varied only in colour. While the Lady Olwen wore the usual Dol Amroth blue, the gown of Princess Ivriniel was a deep sea green that matched the colour of her eyes and that of Princess Finduilas pale blue shot with silver, like silver mist above the waves of the Sea in the morning.

Their undergowns of fine linen were pale grey, embroidered with swans in silver and white on the high neckline and the cuffs, which closed with buttons of small white pearls. Their hair was braided with strings of pearl, too, coiled about their heads and covered with veils so fine one could see through them like through cobwebs – a fabric that could only be made by feather-light Elven hands.

Prince Adrahil and his young son wore floor-length tunics of Dol Amroth blue, with sleeveless surcoats of a deeper royal blue colour. The white swanship of Dol Amroth was stiffly embroidered upon their breast, and identical circlets of gold, studded with blue opals, bound their brows.

The Steward's family was clothed in floor-length tunics and sleeveless surcoats – or, in the Lady Eledhwen's case, a gown – of sombre black, with the White Tree embroidered in silver on the front and the back. The Lady Eledhwen also had an elaborate headdress of black silk, sewn with white pearls.

Lord Lorindol and his lady both wore clothes in the fashion of Pelargir, which had a decidedly oriental touch in both cut and embroidery. Lorindol's robe and surcoat were made of heavy sea-blue silk – the colour of the _Ciryatur_ – with the emblem of his office, an argent sea-lion with a golden mane, embroidered on his breast. His belt was made of linked silver circles.

The Lady Faelivrin wore a flamboyant turquoise gown – the colour of Lebennin – with sleeves so wide that they swept the stone floor, embroidered with small images of the province's symbol, the rampant sea dog in sable and silver, along the hem. She, too, had a headdress of the same fabric as her gown, but it showed a strong Haradri influence: the heavy folds of silk were artfully swaddled around her head and strewn with turquoises and yellow opals.

All guests were escorted into the Feasting Hall by young pages – sons from the lesser nobility who had been sent to the House for proper education and training under the watchful eye of the castellan and the _Ciryatur_'s weapons master. Once there, the castellan himself greeted them as tradition demanded. The pages then led them to their seats; the Standing Silence was observed, before they would take their seats, and the long line of servants, all wearing black tabards with the White Tree embroidered on them, began with the serving of the dinner.

They started the first course with _eyroun in lentyn_ – false almond cream eggs, coloured with saffron, seasoned with cinnamon, sugar and white wine, filled in real eggshells and roasted in fire. To this, they served false butter, made of almond milk and rosewater. The course continued with trout eggs, prepared in a way that made the guests think they would be eating peas, seasoned with saffron, parsley and mint.

As the traditional cuisine of Pelargir considered more than one meat dish per meal an excessive luxury, the following thick pottage – usually made from the innards of hog or dear in other provinces – was made of boiled and chopped mussels, mixed with almond milk, coloured with saffron, spiced with pepper and decorated with periwinkle flowers. The course closed with _gefult pleter aus ayern_ – omelettes stuffed with fried apples, raisins and figs and arranged so that they looked like roses.

While they were waiting for the second course, a minstrel came in; a brisk young man in a sea green doublet, richly embroidered with gold in a calligraphic pattern that most likely originated from Harad. His rich attire alone would reveal that he was not of the lower ranks of his trade, and so did the silver chain around his neck, from which hung the key for tuning his harp.

The instrument itself, clearly built by a master, was carried after him by a stout, dark-skinned boy not older than perhaps fourteen, whose black hair framed his young face in tight curls – he obviously hailed from Khand or Far-Harad. The minstrel, too, showed some Southron traits, being raven-haired and hawk-faced, with olive skin and the golden eyes of a falcon.

"My Lord Prince, my Lord Steward," said the castellan with some pride, "may I present Belzagar of Umbar, one of the greatest minstrels of the South? He has brought new songs to Pelargir – and some very old ones few of our people can still remember in these days."

The minstrel made a sweeping bow in Southron fashion, so that the crown of his head almost touched the stone floor.

"You honour me, good sir," he said in correct, barely accented Westron. "To express my thanks for that, allow me to begin with an old song, in honour of the Lord Ciryatur and his lady: the _Lied of Lebennin_."

He clicked with his fingers, and the Khandian boy – presumably his personal slave, as slavery was still tolerated, if not directly encouraged in Umbar – handed him the harp. While one of the servants hurried to bring him a low, backless chair. For the instrument was a cross-stringed harp and clearly an ancient one, the likes of which no longer were made in Gondor; one that was played in a sitting position, resting on the player's lap.

After plucking a few accords, the minstrel raised his head, and with eyes half-closed, he began to sing the well-known melody that rose and ebbed like the ever-restless waves of the Sea. He sang the upper voice, clear and melodious like a silver bell.

Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui

in the green fields of Lebennin!

Tall grows the grass here.

In the wind from the Sea

the white lilies sway.

And the golden bells are shaken

of _mallos_ and _alfirin_

in the green fields of Lebennin,

in the wind from the Sea.

The _Lied_ was the best-known and probably most popular of all songs in Lebennin, therefore a fairly obvious choice. But the minstrel performed it well, Lady Faelivrin found; no small feat from a foreigner.

Aware of the Southron custom of rewarding the court poets immediately, she took a bracelet from her wrist – it was fine Khandian work, but not so precious that it would have been insulting – and sent it to the minstrel by a page, saying: "On behalf of my lord, the Ciryatur of Pelargir and the Lord of Lebennin, accept this small sign of our appreciation for a song masterfully performed. We are most delighted and looking forward to more samples of your skills."

The minstrel accepted the gift with just enough pride about his own art as to not appear servile, then sat down at the lower table with the ranking servants of the _House_ to enjoy the meal. In the meantime, the remains of the first course had been removed from the table and the servants carried around small silver bowls and white linen towels for the guests to wash their hands before bringing in the second course.

The second course started with _tredure_: a good broth thickened with eggs and breadcrumbs. It was followed by _a dauce egre_: sea fish in sweet and sour sauce, served with _blancmange_, the traditional rice dish of the coastal area. Then came a dish of roasted peas, with a false hare head made of bread, and finally pears, cooked in wine and honey, again in the spirit of not having more than one meat dish per meal.

When the last remove of the course was finished, the guests were given another break, and Belzagar of Umbar rose again, accepting the harp from his slave.

"For the second turn, I shall sing a lay to honour the Prince of Dol Amroth and his ancestress, whose beauty is mirrored on the face of his daughters," he announced. "I give you the _Lay of Nimrodel's_, as it is sung among the Wandering Company of Lord Gildor Inglorion and was taught me by Master Orgof, their eldest minstrel."

The choice alone would have been a surprise, almost a shock for the gathered Gondorian nobles. The daring compliment paid to the two Princesses of Dol Amroth was bordering a challenge. But even more surprised was everyone when the minstrel began to play and sang in slightly accented yet otherwise fairly decent Sindarin. No-one would expect an Umbari minstrel – and one with unmistakable Haradri blood in his veins, too – to know Elven lays… and to perform them in the Grey Tongue, at that.

Yet so Belzagar did, and while his voice lacked the unparalleled fluidity of ethereal Elven voices, it was eerily beautiful nonetheless.

_An Elven-maid there was of old,_

_A shining star by day:_

_Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,_

_Her shoes of silver-grey._

_A star was bound upon her brows,_

_A light was on her hair_

_As sun upon the golden boughs_

_In Lórien the fair._

_Her hair was long, her limbs were white,_

_And fair was she and free;_

_And in the wind she went as light_

_As leaf of linden-tree._

And on he went, through all thirteen verses of the lay, and while he sang, his golden eyes rested upon Princess Ivriniel with quiet intensity. As if the lay had solely been sung in her honour. Prince Adrahil clearly understood the message, for his sea-grey eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Ivriniel, though, accepted the thinly veiled compliment as something that would be her due: with a benevolent smile that did not lack a slight haughtiness. When the minstrel finished the long, time-honoured lay, she followed the lead of the Lady Faelivrin. She removed one of the many bracelets from her slender wrist and winked a page closer, asking the boy to give it to the minstrel.

"For though many times have I heard this lay, sung by Elves and Men in different tongues, never has it touched my heart quite the way as during your performance, Master Belzagar," she said.

The minstrel bowed deeply in southern fashion.

"Neither have I ever been so inspired before, my lady," he replied. "For if I ever had any doubt that the House of Dol Amroth has descended from Elven blood, those doubts would have been dispersed in the very moment I cast my eyes upon your beauty."

Even from a minstrel, whose trade came with allowances no other people would be granted, this was brave speech… almost too brave. Steward Ecthelion glared at the Umbari with a frown; his son and heir seemed downright furious. Ivriniel, however, accepted the compliment with a simple nod and a satisfied little smirk, and _that_ seemed to anger Denethor even more.

To save the suddenly precarious peace of the evening, Lady Faelivrin hurriedly ordered the tables to be cleared and the musicians of her own household to entertain the guests for a while, so that Master Belzagar, too, could have his fair share of the meal. This was his only official payment, after all.

After the musicians came the tumblers and the fire-breathers, and when _they_ finished their performance, the guests had rested enough to be ready for the third course.

Said third course started with _hattes_: small, marrow-filled pastries shaped like hats. Then came a roast peacock, filled with herbs and spices, redressed in its own feathers, with camphire put in its mouth to make it breathe fire when served. This came with _chycles_: roasted chickpeas, boiled with garlic and olive oils. The course closed with _caudell:_ a frothy drink of wine, thickened with eggs.

The fire-breathing peacock was the cause of many _Oh!_s and _Ah!_s, as it was, basically, a Haradri dish, unknown in the northern parts of Gondor. Ecthelion and Denethor, whose tastes ran in simpler directions, were both baffled and a bit taken aback by such theatrical cuisine; and they did not appear to like the _caudell_, either, preferring good wine to remain untampered with. The ladies, however, seemed to enjoy the sweet drink greatly, and young Prince Imrahil was practically enchanted by the 'feathered dragon' – a name he gave the fiery peacock.

When the course came to its end the minstrel rose again and was give his harp.

"My Lord Steward," he said with a polite bow, "allow me to honour you with an ancient song; one that was sung in the courts of Númenor already and, I am told, has been carefully handed down from one generation to the next ever since, in all third realms in exile."

With that, he touched the strings. The ancient, sacred melody that rose was shockingly familiar to all. But even more shocking was the fact that the words coming from the lips of the Southron minstrel were sung in Quenya.

_Ilu Ilúvatar en cárë Eldain a Firímoin _

_ar antaróta mannar Valion númenyaron..._

After the first shock of hearing the sacred tongue of the West – that they would not been able to speak, although they did understand the words of the hymn, of course, as it was part of their Númenórean heritage, a heritage that they shared with the Umbari – the guests allowed the beauty of music and words wash over them.

_Man tárë antuva nin Ilúvatar, Ilúvatar,_

_en yárë tar i-tyel írë Anarinya queluva?_

The minstrel ended his performance with a series of long, complicated accords that required the use of both his hands; then he bowed again, silently. The noble audience was silent, too, for quite some time. It was the Steward who stirred first.

"I did not know that such precious gems of ancient lore are still kept in Umbar," he said. "I thought that shrill noise the Haradrim call music had long ago suppressed the nobler arts."

If the minstrel took offence at the jab against (some of) his ancestors, he gave no sight of it. Instead he bowed to the old man respectfully.

"You must not forget, my Lord Steward, that Umbar, like Pelargir, was founded by the Men of Westernesse in the mists of the previous age," he said. "A stronghold of the _Arûwânai_ for many hundred years, its treasures were not just gold and precious stones, proud ships and great stoneworks; art and wisdom have always been cultivated among the Old Families, even though, sadly, such things no longer reach the lower circles. My order contributes to that knowledge; my brethren, like me, travel far to rediscover forgotten lays and tales – or to learn new ones."

"Are all Umbari minstrels so well-versed in the ancient lore of Númenor, then?" asked Denethor, his voice clearly revealing his doubts.

The minstrel shook his head. "Nay, my lord. Each of us has his special task. Some go to Rhûn or Far-Harad or even beyond, to learn. Others travel beyond the _Hithaeglir_, to what once was the North-kingdom. Again others roam the Wilderland and converse with Elves and Dwarves. I am the only one in these days who studies Númenórean lore; as my father did before me and his father before him."

"Whom do you serve, though?" asked Prince Adrahil. "All minstrels have a patron."

"I used to have one," admitted Belzagar, "when the lady of First Consul Herucalmo was still alive. She generously willed me enough wealth, however, so that I need not to serve anyone but my own art."

"How odd," said Lady Eledhwen, "that your travels would bring you to Pelargir at this very time."

"Odd indeed," replied the minstrel agreeably, "but the Powers will know why they inspired me to come now and not at any other time."

That was a very proper answer; also one that successfully blocked any further questions. Admitting defeat, Lord Lorindol signalled his lady wife that the fourth course could be served.

Compared with the first three courses, the fourth one – the actual dessert course – was fairly modest. It consisted of _char de crabb_, a tart apple pie flavoured with anise, a sweet honey candy called _gyngerbrede_, and a selection of figs, dates, cantaloupes and various nuts, both from the local and the oriental variety.

The feast then went on, deep into the night, with more wine and more music. The tumblers and fire-breathers retuned to entertain the noble guests, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Only the Lady Olwen begged for excuse after a while, for young Prince Imrahil needed to go to bed. Of her daughters, Finduilas chose to stay with her father, while Ivriniel returned to her chambers to make plans for the following day.

~TBC~

The hymn in English, by Tolkien himself, as it can be found in "The Lost Road", P 79:

_The Father made the World for Elves and Mortals, and he gave it into the hands of the Lords. They are in the West. They are holy, blessed, and beloved: save the dark one. He is fallen. Melko has gone from Earth: it is good. For Elves they made the Moon, but for Men the red Sun: which are beautiful. To all they gave in measure the gifts of Ilúvatar. The World is fair, the sky, the seas, the earth, and that is in them. Lovely is Númenor. But my heart resteth not here for ever; for here is ending, and there will be and end and the Fading, when all is counted, and all numbered at last, but yet it will not be enough. Not enough. What will the Father, o Father, give me in that day beyond the end when my Sun faileth?_

The opening and closing lines as given in this chapter have been updated to the Quenya spoken in the Third Age by Fiondil, whom I owe my gratitude.


	3. Chapter 3: A Princess Scorned

**Sea-Flower**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Rating:** Adults I think. Too much politics and violence for young readers.

**Author's notes:** Denethor married Finduilas in 2876 T.A, about eight years after the discussion in this chapter.

_Ullubôz_ is the supposed Valarin form of the name Ulmo. I used it here because it is closer to the hypothetical Adûnaic version than the Quenya form – at least visually. Ošošai is, of course, Valarin for Ossë, ad is used for the same reason.

* * *

**Chapter 03 – A Princess Scorned**

Having left the _King's House_, the minstrel Belzagar headed to the nearby _Merchant District_, where he enjoyed the hospitality of Master Falassion, a rich silk merchant with Umbari roots, for the time of his stay in Pelargir.

That Master Falassion happened to be a maternal uncle of Lady Avradî, Second Consul Manwendil's wife, was a fact largely unknown in Pelargir. That he also happened to be the focus and centre of the Umbari network of spies operating in Pelargir was, at the very least, suspected by Lord Lorindol's own spymaster, but there could never be found any proof. His occupation as a merchant of luxury items – he also dealt in rare spices and oils – covered a great deal of activities; and it enabled him to travel across Gondor, from fair to fair, as long as he did not openly break any Gondorian laws.

His townhouse, built in southern fashion around a central garden, showed clearly his wealth and importance. But while it seemed not to differ that much from the other rich merchant houses on the outside, within it was a small fortress, with an impressive number of armed guards, fortifications along the outer walls and secret escape tunnels in the basement that led directly to the harbour, to the great _Roofed Market_ of the town and to his warehouses along the riverside, respectively.

The Master of this fine house was waiting for the return of the minstrel with the patience of a spider sitting in the centre of its web. Not alone, though. He was accompanied by Captain Atanalcar. The admiral of the Umbari fleet was wearing the typical floor-length, widely cut, colourful woollen _kafthan_ of a Haradri merchant that could hide a great many things beneath its heavy folds. In this case, a mail shirt and numerous weapons. The wide hood of the _kafthan_ was tossed back, as there was no need to hide his face in the house of a trusted ally. Underneath, he wore his long, ink-black hair down, instead of the usual barbaric pomp, topped with a masterfully wrapped white turban.

Master Falassion himself was clad in the usual fashion of Pelargir: in a sleeveless blue surcoat over a teal tunic that had reached to mid-calf and was embroidered with a wavy pattern in silver and green. He was a tall man of old Dúnadan stock, more than thrice the Umbari admiral's age and grown a bit heavy under the weight of his years, but his eyes were still sharp and his wits still keen. Married from his own circles, yet childless like too many Umbari nobles, he saw it as his last important task to help First Consul Herucalmo's wedding plans for his son and heir to success.

When the minstrel was led in, both men turned to him expectantly. He had been sent to sing on the feast with express orders to gather information, after all.

"Well?" asked Master Falassion. "Have you seen the princesses?"

The minstrel nodded. "Yes, my lord, they both attended. Princess Finduilas, the younger one, even remained with her father, the Steward and the Ciryatur when her mother and sister retired, or so the servants say. 'Tis said that she has a keen interest in the affairs of the Realm."

"That sounds promising," said Master Falassion. "Tis thought that the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth intend to re-forge their alliance by marrying their children to each other; that is why their current meeting was called for. In which case we can assume that the Steward's Heir will wed Adrahil's firstborn."

"That might be the plan," agreed the minstrel, "but Lord Denethor seemed to be more taken with Princess Finduilas, if the signs at the feast have not deceived me; and he does not strike me as a man who would rethink his choice in such matters."

"I doubt that you would be mistaken," said the merchant. "You were sent to the feast because of your excellent judgement of people's heart; if you say Denethor has taken an interest in the younger princess, then it would be so."

"Why would we care anyway?" asked Captain Atanalcar with a shrug. "Either princess would do for young Lord Caliondo."

"True," allowed Master Falassion. "But if we make the mistake of taking the chosen bride of the Steward's Heir, we shall have more than just the enraged father to deal with. Nay; we shall wait until Denethor makes his choice and make our move accordingly."

"That could take a long time," protested Captain Atanalcar. "I cannot be away from the Fleet indeterminedly."

"You shall not have," replied the merchant. "The Steward cannot do so, either. Nay; we shall have our answer before the end of the week, of that I am certain. Until then, we must work out the details of our plan."

Atanalcar thought about that for a moment; then he nodded tersely.

"Very well. I can wait another two days. After that, we must make our move, whether it is convenient or not."

* * *

Less than a day later, the mightiest men and women of Gondor were having a similar discussion in the _King's House_.

"This is a plan towards which Prince Angelimir and I have worked for years," said the Steward with emphasis. "The blood of Westernesse has been diluted in the South; and as we know very little about our northern brethren, connections to what was once Arnor being sparse as they are, the best we can do is to unite our two bloodlines in marriage. We cannot look any higher for a suitable bride for my heir than the House of Dol Amroth. Not even Eorl's House would suffice. Thengel's daughters may have the blood of Morwen of Lossarnach in their veins, but they are not of royal stock from their mother's side"

"And even if they were, people would still see them as the daughters of a barbaric Northman," added the Lady Eledhwen grimly. "Nay; Denethor needs a bride whose ancestry rivals that of his own. 'Til the return of the King, 'tis the House of Húrin that must hold up the standard in everything."

Prince Adrahil nodded in agreement. "My father discussed this with us in great length, and we concur. I must admit that the age difference worried me at first; but 'tis said that the blood of Númenor runs true and deep in Lord Denethor. Therefore he and Ivriniel can hope for many long and fertile years together."

Everyone looked expectantly at the Steward's heir. There was little doubt that he would give his consent. Denethor son of Ecthelion was a man in his prime, known for his wisdom and devoted to the good of Gondor. Nor did this suggestion come unexpected for him, having served as his father's chief counsellor for a decade or more already.

Thus they were all shocked when they saw him shake his head determinedly.

"I regret to crush your hopes, Father, my Lord Prince," he said in his deep, beautiful voice, "but I shall _not_ wed Princess Ivriniel. Not now, not later – not ever."

The mightiest lords and ladies of the South-kingdom stared at him thunderstruck, shaken to the bone. Ere they could start protesting, though, he raised a long, elegant hand, signalling that he had something else to say yet.

"However, as I am aware of the importance of such a bond between our two lines, I will gladly take Princess Finduilas as my wife," he continued. "For she is the one who touched my heart on the very day when she was first presented to the court; and I have loved and admired her from afar ever since."

"Impossible!" cried Lady Olwen of Dol Amroth in great distress. "Finduilas is barely more than a child; she is not ready for married life yet!"

"Then I shall wait until she _is_ ready," answered Denethor simply. "I have the time and the patience. But it shall be her or no-one else."

"'Tis madness!" murmured Lady Olwen, but Prince Adrahil disagreed.

"Why would it be? Remember, beloved, we were not much older when we bound than Finduilas is now; and between her and Ivriniel there are only three years. They would both be child brides, if that is what concerns you; and the age difference would be considerable in any case."

"True; but Ivriniel has the strength to support the future Steward in ruling the Realm," said Lady Olwen.

"And you believe Finduilas has not?" asked the Lady Faelivrin in surprise. "Forgive me, but I think you are mistaken. She has shown keen enough interest for the affairs of the Realm just last night; and her gentleness would complement my brother's stern nature most pleasantly. She might not have Ivriniel's iron will and whipcord strength; but I believe she can wear out anyone, with the same deceiving mildness as the water washes out the stone."

Lady Olwen turned to her husband in helpless despair. "Adrahil, you cannot be truly considering this! She is our baby girl, our little mermaid; she would waste away in that city of stone!"

Prince Adrahil sighed. "Beloved, you know as well as I do that we need this alliance. Both our Houses need it; _Gondor_ needs it! And if Lord Denethor as lost his heart to _one_ of our daughters, would that not be better for both of them than spending fifty or more years in a loveless marriage, just for the good of Gondor?"

Lady Olwen shook her head. "But she is young, much too young! She has just reached the age when a maiden of her status begins to learn her place in the world. She is not like Ivriniel who always had it so urgent to grow up."

"Which is why we shall not have this wedding for years to come yet," said Prince Adrahil. "Lord Denethor agreed to wait 'til our little one is ready to shoulder the burden of becoming the Steward's wife."

"How can you be certain that she ever will?" demanded Lady Olwen. "Why would she _want_ to do so? 'Twas always understood that Ivriniel would be the one to enter a dynastic marriage if needs must be. She has been prepared to do so all her life. Finduilas has _not_."

"Are you certain about that, my lady?" asked the Steward. "The young princess appeared to me last night as someone who is willing and able to fill such an important role in the White City. Why do we not ask her if that is what she truly wants?"

"You want to blind her with the false glory of power and courtly life!" answered Lady Olwen bitterly. "She is young; she can easily be misled by such things."

"Nay, I do not think so," said Lady Eledhwen. "Methinks you do not know your daughter half as well as you believe, Olwen. She is not the guileless child or the fragile glower you seem to want her to be; she has strength and she has wisdom rarely seen in someone this young. I agree that she would need time to prepare herself for such a heavy burden; but I firmly believe that her shoulders will prove strong enough to bear it."

"My father is right," said Lady Faelivrin. "We should ask the princess herself. 'Til she says either aye or nay, this argument is pointless."

Ecthelion nodded. "With Prince Adrahil's consent, I believe we should do it right away."

"That would be the best," Adrahil agreed, and a page was called in and sent on his way to fetch the younger princess.

A short time later the page returned, accompanied by both princesses, who were wearing identical raiment: pale blue bliauts over soft grey undergowns. Finduilas had her hair braided and coiled and held together by a silver net, while Ivriniel's was flowing down her back freely, bound only by a thing gold circlet that bound her high brow.

There was very little actual likeness between the two of them, save for their regal bearing, but one could feel how fiercely protective Ivriniel was towards her younger sister. Protective enough to accompany her before the Steward's presence, even though she had not been invited herself.

They both curtseyed before the Steward as nobly born ladies were taught from a tender age on, and then Finduilas said simply:

"You called for my, my Lord Steward."

Ecthelion nodded. "Yea, I have, daughter. I assume you both know of the reason for our meeting here; in Pelargir, I mean."

"Indeed we do, my Lord Steward," said the younger princess, a little surprised. "For three years, negotiations between you and our grandfather have been going on, to have my sister and your heir wedded, for the good of Gondor and Dol Amroth. 'Tis no secret. But what do I have to do with that?"

"More than you might believe," replied her father in the Steward's stead. "It seems that there will have to be a change in our plans. Lord Denethor has just announced that he does not want to wed Ivriniel, after all. He wants _you_ as his future bride."

To say that the princesses were shocked beyond belief by that would have been the understatement of the Age. Both became stark white, and for a moment it seemed as if they would both faint. However, while Finduilas was clearly frightened by the news, all Ivriniel's beautiful face mirrored was cold fury.

When the moment of shock passed, she whirled around and glared at Denethor with a look that could have frozen Mount Doom over.

"You miserable spawn of a fatherless Orc," she hissed, and everyone was startled by the venom in her voice; not to mention by the choice of her words that no-one would have expected from a gently bred lady, even less so from a princess. "How do you _dare_ to take from me the only purpose I had left?"

"Ivriniel!" her mother cried out, scandalised. "Watch your words!"

Ivriniel ignored her, turning the full onslaught of her wrath against the Steward's heir who, frankly, looked a little pale himself.

"Eighteen years," she said in a cold, measure voice that was more frightening than if she had been screaming. "Eighteen years have I spent preparing to become the Ruling Princess of Dol Amroth. _We still live under Númenóren law_, I was told over and over again, which supposedly meant that the firstborn child would follow my father, whether a son or a daughter. I accepted my role and I was ready. Oh, I was more than ready. Then it seemed that my brother would live after all, and Father and Grandfather could not back off quickly enough. _We have to adapt to the laws of Gondor_, I was told all of a sudden, and ere I knew what was happening, a ten-year-old boy was named as Grandfather's heir. _Your studies shall not be wasted_, they told me. _They would be a great advantage if – __when__! – you married the Steward's heir. You shall be a great help and support for him._ And now I am being cast away like some useless tool just because he fell for the pretty eyes of my sister? How is that fair towards me?"

Said pretty eyes, dark like their mother's, were rapidly filling with tears of distress.

"Sister, I never wished to take your place," protested Finduilas. Ivriniel kissed her on the brow.

"I know, little one. 'Tis not your fault, and I blame you not. You are just a piece in this board game like I am. But I do blame _you_, Father," she turned to Prince Adrahil, her voice becoming icy again, "for using me and discarding me without a thought when my usefulness for your plans have ended. What am I supposed to do with my life, now that I no longer have any use for Dol Amroth? Do you expect me to shut myself away into the topmost chamber of some remote tower in the Castle and do embroidery until I grow blind from it? Am I a princess of Imrazôr's House or am I a serving wench?"

She turned to Lady Olwen, without giving her father the chance to give an answer… not that he seemed to have one.

"And _you_, Mother, you are just sitting there, watching as I am stripped from the purpose of my life again? I have expected better from _you._"

"I have tried, Ivriniel," answered Lady Olwen dejectedly. "Believe me, I have tried. But they were all against me, and I got outvoted."

"Of course," said Ivriniel bitterly. "After all, I am but a woman. My purpose is to serve the needs of the men; and once I am no longer needed, I must quietly vanish in the shadows, so that I would not become a nuisance."

She balled her fists, fighting back her fury with all her might. 'Twas a truly frightening sight.

"If I were a man, I would break your nose," she then said to Denethor. "Be grateful that I am but a woman who has no other choice than to accept your despicable acts. But if I were you, I would avoid me like the plague for the rest of our lives. I do not take betrayal kindly."

"Ivriniel," Prince Adrahil intervened sternly. "You forget whom you are talking to."

"Nay, Father, I do not," returned Ivriniel coldly. "I remember all too well who it was who betrayed me, not only once but twice. That would be _you_, would it not? You and Grandfather have robbed me of my birthright in favour of Imrahil; and now you are more than willing to discard me on my sister's behalf. I might have forgiven you for the first betrayal in time, though truly, how does it make you any different from King Ar-Pharazôn who broke the hereditary laws of Númenor, so that he could become King. But I shall never, ever forgive you for your second betrayal. For it has made my entire life meaningless."

"Ivriniel," her mother tried to soothe her. "'Twas not your father's decision. Lord Denethor would not have any-one but Finduilas. And this alliance is needed, on both sides."

"So why is _he_ entitled to get what – or _whom_ – he desires, why I get thrown onto the dung heap?" demanded Ivriniel. "Because he is a man? Because Gondor has lowered itself to the customs of the lesser people that give men the right to have everything they want and expect women to serve their whims? Where is the difference, then, between the oh-so enlightened ways of Westernesse and the darkness in which the Old Folk has lived since the dawn of Time?"

"That is quite enough now, Ivriniel," her father intervened again. "You have said your piece; that should suffice. I understand that you are disappointed, but…"

"Nay, you do not understand a thing," she interrupted. "You have no idea how I feel. You believe I am insulted, just because a man chose my sister over me? You could not be more wrong. I never had any interest in his _person_. I accepted the necessity of wedding him, so that I can do what I was born and raised for; because as a woman, I had no other way to that purpose. _You_, Father, ensured that when you made Imrahil your heir. You took me everything I have lived for, and now you are allowing my only other chance to be taken away. What kind of father _are_ you? I am no longer your daughter; and I shall never speak with you again."

She whirled around and stormed out of the _Lesser Hall_, without as much as a backward glance at the gathered nobility. Steward Ecthelion looked after her in concern; then at his heir with mild accusation.

"I hope you know what you are doing, _ion nîn_. For this is not good, and it could lead to great trouble yet."

"If that is so, I regret it," answered Denethor simply. "But I shall not take any other woman to my wife than Princess Finduilas. Even if the Lady of the Golden Wood came and offered me the hand of her daughter, I would refuse," he glanced at Finduilas briefly. "Understand this, Princess: if you refuse me on your sister's behalf, which I hope you will not, I would still not wed her."

"Oh, I do understand that; I am no fool," replied Finduilas coldly. "I am just not certain that I would want to bind myself to a man who treated my sister so cruelly."

"For the good of Gondor, I beg you to reconsider, daughter," said the Steward quietly.

Finduilas looked at him archly, one fine eyebrow rising askance.

"So, both my sister and I are supposed to give up whatever we wanted from our life for the good of the Realm, but the same sacrifice is _not_ expected from Lord Denethor? That hardly sounds fair, my Lord Steward. 'Tis something I shall have to think about long and hard; for I for myself never intended to leave the shores of the Sea."

"Then think about it," said the Steward, "but we shall need an answer, soon. The people of Gondor need the reassurance that the House of Húrin shall continue. We are all they have – until the King may return."

"I regret that I shall have to make the good people of Gondor wait a little longer," replied Finduilas icily, "yet that cannot be helped. 'Tis not something I can decide at a whim; unlike my sister, I have not prepared myself for such a burden all my life. Therefore, you shall have to be patient, my Lord Steward… or find another bride for your heir if you are in such a hurry to finally see him wedded and bedded."

Her sharp words shocked the great lords and ladies of the Realm, even more so than the bitter accusations of her sister. At least from Ivriniel, the Prince of Dol Amroth and his lady were used to such merciless remarks; the older princess was taught to deal with recalcitrant nobles if needs must be. This coming from their sweet, mild-mannered younger daughter surprised them, though, and shook them to the bone. No-one would have expected _Finduilas_ to side with her strong-willed sister in such a debate.

She did not wait for her parents – or anyone else present – to recover from their shock, either. Instead, she curtseyed before the Steward with icy politeness and left, without as much as a glance backward.

* * *

"Interesting," commented Master Falassion a few hours later, when the report of his spies planted in the _King's House_ reached him in his own home. "Most interesting indeed. I have not expected any hindrances in the way of this marriage. It seemed that everything had been arranged years ago."

"Clearly, no-one had expected the Steward's heir to fall for the wrong princess," replied his wife. She, too, came from an ancient _Adûnai_ family that hailed from Umbar but had moved to Pelargir several generations earlier, and she, too, had a keen interest in the matters of the Realm.

"True, but how does this help us?" asked Captain Atanalcar doubtfully.

Master Falassion shrugged.

"At least we know which princess to take. Young Lord Caliondo loves a good challenge; and persuading Princess Ivriniel to become his wife _will_ be a challenge. Perchance the greatest challenge of his life."

"Mayhap so," his wife allowed. "But mayhap it will be easier than any of us would believe. Surely, she _will_ be enraged about being taken to Umbar against her will. But by becoming the lady of the First Consul's heir, she will get the chance to rule, for which she was bred and has been prepared all her life. I wish we had more time; in her current mood, she might even come out of her own free will."

"Alas, time is something we sorely lack at the moment," said Captain Atanalcar. "We must make our move within two days, so that I can take the princess to Umbar on my ship. 'Tis the fastest of all; the fleet of Pelargir has nothing that could catch up with her."

"What about the ship of Dol Amroth?" asked Master Falassion in concern. "'Tis said that their swanships are Elven-made…"

"That might be so, but the one Prince Adrahil came with is a small one, not built for fighting,' said Atanalcar. "Nay; once the princess is aboard, we are in the better position. The only question is, where and when can we grab her unnoticed. For if the _Ciryatur_ gives the order to close the harbour, we'd have a hard time to break through the blockade. The ships of the Royal Fleet are manned by doughty warriors."

"There may be a way," said the mistress of the house. "'Tis an old custom of the House of Dol Amroth to pay the _Well of Ullubôz_ a visit, whenever they come to Pelargir."

"That would help us… how exactly?" asked Captain Atanalcar. "That is the most sacred place in Pelargir; they say the Power present there is seconded only by another place high above the White City. My forefathers might have been what the Gondorians call the Black Númenóreans, but not even I am foolish enough to raise the wrath of the Lord of Waters. His mighty vassals could destroy our entire fleet effortlessly."

Master Falassion smiled thinly. "I never imagined that those of mixed blood would fear the Powers this much."

Atanalcar shrugged. "Every sailor knows that he lives on the sufferance of Ullubôz and his vassals. We may not speak about it, not in these times when Zigûr's ears and eyes are everywhere, but yea, we all have a healthy fear of the wild Ošošai and his long-tressed spouse, the Lady of the Sea. Which is why I would never be foolish enough to attack someone in Ullubôz' own sanctum; least of all a daughter of the family that has always stood under the protection of his chief vassals. She is a sea flower, and we must treat her with respect, if we want the First Consul's plans to work out."

"In that case," said the mistress of the house slowly, "perchance we should employ the help of the minstrel again."

~TBC~


	4. Chapter 4: Ulmo's Well

**Sea-Flower**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Rating:** Adults I think. Too much politics and violence for young readers.

**Author's notes:** The idea of the Well of Ulmo has been borrowed from a role-playing site. Its description, though, is entirely mine. The ballad is actually a poem by Tolkien, titled "The Last Ship" – or rather a few selected verses of it.

To understand who Lirillo truly was, you should read "The Vault of the Dead".

* * *

**Chapter 04 – Ulmo's Well**

The Well of Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, the second most sacred place in Gondor, stood in the oldest part of Pelargir: the very one built back in the Second Age. In fact, it had already been there when the first Númenórean ships landed on the southern shores of Middle-earth – and presumably a long time before. The first settlement had been built around the Well, and it had been a place of wassail and meditation ever since.

Originally a natural well of immeasurable depths – and people _had_ tried to measure those depths and failed, again and again – its surroundings had gone through a number of changes as time had gone by. The current fountain – a truly amazing group of marble fish, seahorses and other maritime creatures surrounding a round basin, in the middle of which one of the long-tressed Wingildi, the female spirits of the Sea and the foam of the ocean, was pouring water from a large, twisted seashell back into the basin – had been built during the reign of King Tarannon Falastur, and miraculously remained in perfect shape, save for a bit of moss near the stone-paved ground.

In a distance of roughly twenty feet, a circle of large white standing stones surrounded the well – a memorial of all the Kings, Queens and Princes who had visited Ulmo's sanctum during the recent Age. Other than that, the Well stood open for any visitors who wanted to pay their respects to the Lord of the Waters.

Princess Ivriniel let her guards behind, outside the circle of standing stones, and they did not argue with her, firmly believing – like just everyone in Pelargir – that Lord Ulmo would protect those who visited his Well. A late daughter of Imrazôr the Númenórean even more so than anyone else, for had not been the Princes of Dol Amroth under his special protection since the very birth of their House?

She walked through between the standing stones from the western direction, wishing nought but to be left alone. She was bitter and resentful; first and foremost at Denethor, who dared to dismiss her blithely, as if she'd been a mere tool rather than a person. But also at the Steward, who had allowed it to happen, and at her own parents, who would willingly sacrifice her destiny in order to save the alliance between the two Houses.

To her utter shame, she even felt anger and resentment towards her own sister, albeit Finduilas was truly innocent in the unfortunate turn of events. It was not her fault that she had caught Denethor's eye. And still, being dismissed because of her little sister stung.

But that was the truly distasteful part of the whole disaster, was it not? That women, even the daughters of a princely House, were not important. That they could be exchanged for each other, regardless of their talents, strengths and dreams.

That they were denied the very chance for greatness.

Ivriniel went to the basin and sat down perched upon its rim, bathing her hand in the cool water. She was not entirely certain why she had come. The Well was not an oracle to give her visions of the future or to answer her questions in any other way. Still, 'twas said that Lord Ulmo would hear _everything_ that was said near _any_ source of water, and she needed to speak to _someone_.

Why not to the patron of her House, then?

"What am I supposed to do now?" she asked quietly, playing with the tiny waves caused by the water splashing into the basin. "They took me my very purpose. What should I do with my life now?"

"'Tis entirely up to you, daughter of Adrahil," a voice, soft and musical like falling and flowing waters, answered.

Startled, she looked up, and her gaze fell upon a stall, slender figure standing nearby. At first she thought him to be a male Elf, as he had a pale, fair face, framed by long, unbraided silver hair and dominated by a pair of large, sea-green eyes. Lord Gildor's people did sail up from Edhellond to Pelargir sometimes, although they usually did not reveal themselves. His clothes – a flowing turquoise robe worn over a tunic of silver-grey, watered silk – would also match the fashion sense of a Sindarin Elf with strong Teleri roots.

But as she looked into those bottomless eyes, she got the impression that he was older than even the oldest Elf in Middle-earth. Much, much older.

"Who are you?" she asked. "And why are you spying on me?"

"I am not," he replied calmly. "Although I have come a long way from the White Mountains to speak to you, Princess Ivriniel."

"How do you know my name?" she demanded. "And why would you want to speak to me?"

"I might have become a lot less than I once used to be, but I can still recognize the progeny of Mithrellas," he replied with a faint smile. "And I am here to offer you a choice."

"What kind of choice?" she asked warily.

He made a sweeping gesture in the direction of the standing stones.

"You have two choices when you leave this place," he said. "Go back to the western gate, through which you have come, and you will return to the safety of your home. To a slow, uneventful life at your father's court. Leave through the eastern gate, and you will be heading towards adventure and mortal danger. That way can lead you to untimely death; but it can also lead you to a new destiny. To a chance to turn the fate of Gondor like few women could before."

"How do I know where that way would truly lead me?" she asked.

"You do not," he replied simply. "The future is not yet set ins tone. All it can promise you are possibilities. 'Tis up to you how you use them. All ways can turn good or evil."

"What possibilities would await me when I choose the eastern way?"

She did not need to ask about the other one. She knew – and despised – _those_ chances all too well. Spending her life as an embittered spinster in suffocating irrelevance at her father's court; or being married off to a man below her own status who would resent her for standing above him.

Neither was an appealing choice.

"The choice to become what you were born and bred for," he replied. "But like all great destinies, 'tis marked by peril. Your rising would mean the fall of others, and they shall not take it kindly. If you leave to the East, you will go to war: to your very own, private war; and there is a chance that you would fight your battles alone."

"Have I not done so all my life," she dismissed his warning.

"Nay," he said gravely. "If you choose the eastern way, you will learn what it means to be _truly_ alone."

She gave him a wary look. "How would you know that? And who _are_ you anyway? You still have not told me your name."

"I had many names in my long life," he answered, "none of which would say you much. But you can call me Lirillo, if you want; fort hat is a name I often used in the past."

"A strange name that rings like the spring rain on the surface of a still lake," she said. "Yet one I never heard before, although I know more of the great tales and songs of the past than most. Are you an Elf?"

"Nay," he answered, smiling, "though I have lived among then longer than Gondor has existed. You cannot have heard of me, lady, for my name has been wiped from the Song of Arda, and now 'tis nought else but a faint echo, barely perceived throughout the long Ages of the world."

"Who are you then?" she insisted. "Or rather _what_ are you?"

"Once, when the world was still young, my siblings and I were an entwined melody within the Great Music," he answered. "Now our theme has faded and we have become less than a memory. You, however, must decide, and soon," he said, ere Ivriniel could have asked him more. "A little more time and your guards will become restless and come to look for you."

"But if I choose the eastern way, how shall I know where to go?" she asked.

Lirillo looked at her with those large, strangely luminous grey-green eyes as if he could see directly into her heart.

'Once you pass the eastern gate, you shall receive a sign," he replied. "Follow the music and it will lead you to your destiny."

"Will I ever see you again?" she asked.

Lirillo shook his head.

"I believe not. I have already tarried here too long; I am needed back home. You, though, must leave _now_, one direction or the other, as long as you still have the choice."

Ivriniel hesitated for a moment. "Will I ever come back?"

"That is a question I cannot answer," admitted Lirillo. "I do not see what will come. All I know is that this is your last chance to take your fate into your own hand… and you do not have the time to waste."

Ivriniel's heart was torn in two, between the fear of an uncertain future and the burning desire to become the mistress of her own fate. After a short yet vicious inner struggle, the desire for greatness and adventure won, as Lirillo had thought it would. For she had been made for greatness; and to play a crucial role in the history of Gondor.

"I choose to forge my own destiny then," she announced with quiet pride and, no longer hesitating, left the sacred Well with long, steady strides – through the eastern entrance.

Lirillo looked after her thoughtfully.

"May the Lord of the Waters and the Lady of the Seas protect and guide you on your chosen path," he murmured, ere fading away in the last moment. Projecting his own image across such a great distance had taken its toll.

When the worried guards finally came to look for their princess, the circle of the Well was quiet and empty.

* * *

The eastern gate of Ulmo's sacred place opened to one of the many roads leading to the harbour. This one led directly to the ancient haven, which had once housed the Royal Fleet. Now it was simply one of the places where the merchant ships from the South moored, and Ivriniel wondered how she was supposed to find her destiny here, of all places.

And yet she felt the strong urge to follow that particular road, and she did so, still asking herself what she was doing here.

Until she heard the music, that is. It came from one of the small marketplaces along the road, within earshot of _Ulmo's Well,_ where only a few spice merchants sold incense for the worshippers. It also served as the meeting place of wandering minstrels, where they could share their songs.

She recognised the melody at once. It was an old, romantic ballad, very popular among young Gondorian ladies¿ the one describing the encounter of Princess Fíriel, daughter and only surviving child of Kind Ondoher, with a shipful of Elves on their way to the Blessed Land.

A sudden music to her came,

as she stood there gleaming

with free hair in the morning's flame

on her shoulders streaming.

Flutes there were, harps were wrung,

And there was sound of singing,

Like wind-like voices keen and young

And far bells ringing.

Thus the minstrel sang, already at the fourth verse of the long ballad. This was a verse Ivriniel always liked very much. Being one of the very few people in these days who ever set foot in Edhellond, the only Elf-haven remaining in the South of Gondor, she happened to know that the description of singing Elves in the ballad was quite accurate.

_Could this be the sign Lirillo was talking about?_ Wondered Ivriniel._ A ballad about Elves asking a mortal princess to go with them to the Undying Lands?_

She knew, of course, that it was all poetic nonsense. Even if some Elves did choose to bind themselves to a mortal, it was an extremely rare thing, and it never ended well. Her own ancestress had left her mortal family after a while and returned to her kind.

And even if she had not, if she had chosen to Sail, she could never have taken her mortal husband or her children with her. The _Olórë Mallë_ was closed for mortals; and besides, even the desire to walk on that path would have been perilous. After all, had not such desire led to the Downfall of Númenor?

A ship with golden beak and oar

and timbers white came gliding;

swans went sailing on before,

her tall prow guiding.

Fair folk out of Elvenland

In silver-grey were rowing,

and three with crown, she saw there stand

with bright hair flowing.

The minstrel's voice became more distant, as if he had been walking away while singing. Ivriniel quickened her stride involuntarily; she was drawn to that voice, and she wanted to hear the rest of the ballad, quite certain now that it was some sort of sign for her.

With harp in hand they sang their song

to the slow oars swinging;

'Green is the land, the leaves are long,

and the birds are singing.

Many a day with dawn of gold

this earth will lighten,

many a flower will yet unfold,

ere the cornfields whiten."

The singing came from a shorter distance now: she was catching up with the minstrel. Without truly considering what she was doing, Ivriniel sang with him the next one, Fíriel's question to the Elves.

'Then whiter go ye, boatmen fair

down the river gliding?

To twilight and to secret lair

in the great forest hiding?

The Northern isles and shores of stone

on strong swans flying

by cold waves to dwell alone

with the white gulls crying?'

And as if he had expected her to join the singing, the minstrel answered for the Elven boatmen:

'Nay!' they answered. 'Far away

on the last road faring,

leaving western havens grey,

the seas of shadow daring,

we go back to Elvenhome,

where the White Tree is growing,

and the Star shines upon the foam

on the last shore flowing.'

Barely had he finished the verse when Ivriniel caught up with him on another small square with a fountain in the middle, wrought like a fish standing on its head. She was not truly surprised when she recognised him.

"Princess Ivriniel," Belzagar of Umbar handed the harp to his young slave and bowed deeply in Southron fashion. "So we meet again."

"You do not appear surprised, Master Belzagar," she replied, and he bowed deeply again.

"Indeed, I am not, fair Princess. But neither are you, if I may be so bold.

She gave him a thin smile. "I was promised a sign. What is your excuse?"

"I was sent to find _you_," he replied, and she raised a fine eyebrow.

"And you clearly succeeded. What now?"

"Now you are going to a long journey, my lady," he answered, taking her hand to kiss it.

She never noticed the thin needle hidden in his ring prickle. She just swayed into his arm, deeply asleep.

"Quickly!" hissed the minstrel to the two men clad like simple Haradri merchants who came forth from the shadow of the fountain in a great hurry. "Roll her into that rug and off with you to the ship. We must leave as soon as possible, or we can all give up on our lives!"

The two Umbari boatmen, disguised as Haradri merchants, acted quickly and with great skill. Moments later the square was empty again, and Captain Atanalcar's ship ready to set sail for home.

* * *

The news that Princess Ivriniel had vanished from Ulmo's sanctum caused great uproar in the King's House, of course. Lady Olwen was beside herself, alternately crying her heart out and accusing everyone for the loss of her daughter, beginning with her own husband through the Steward himself to Lord Lorindol, his wife, Lady Eledhwen and, first and foremost, Denethor. After much fuss, she firmly settled on the thought that Ivriniel had sought death over her bitter disappointment.

"Nay, Mother, you are wrong," said Finduilas equally firmly. "Ivriniel is stronger than that. She would never throw her life away; she would find something else to live for, even if it were hard. She never backed off from a task, no matter how burdensome."

"What do you think might have happened to her?" asked Prince Adrahil in concern.

Finduilas shrugged. "I believe she has been taken. For ransom, most likely; everyone knows that you are the wealthiest Lord of Gondor, Father. Albeit there could be other reasons, too."

"But how could she have been taken from _Ulmo's Well_, of all places, without anyone noticing it?" asked Lady Faelivrin. "The place is much frequented by worshippers, and her guards were nearby."

"Nearby; but not _with_ her," reminded her Finduilas. "Everyone can be taken without much noise, if the ones doing the taking are fast and skilled. "Tis not always somebody grabbing a screaming, flailing woman and putting her in a sack. There are other methods; and I am fairly certain that the spies of Umbar, who are numerous in this city as we all know – or those of any of the Haradric realms – are familiar with such methods."

"You believe it was pre-meditated, then?" asked the Steward, and Finduilas nodded.

"Yea, my Lord Steward, I do. Our visit here was long planned; many people knew about it and expected it. _Including_ the spies of the hostile realms, I deem."

"There is a wealth of truth in your words, Princess Finduilas," said Lord Lorindol thoughtfully. "I fear, however, that if Umbar is truly behind the abduction of your sister. Then we may already be too late to look for her."

"Can you not decree the closing down of the harbour?" demanded Lady Olwen.

"I can," replied the Ciryatur. "In fact, I already have. But by the time my orders reached the harbour master, quite a few ships have already left. Merchant barges, all of them – at least to the naked eye. By some of them, however, it could have been a mere disguise."

"Is there no way to learn more about those ships?" asked Prince Adrahil.

The Ciryatur shrugged. "We can always question Master Falassion, like we always do. _Everyone_ knows that he is the master of all Umbari spies here in Pelargir; we just never could prove anything."

"That must be upsetting," said Denethor. His brother-in-law shrugged again.

"Nay; in truth, 'tis rather convenient. By keeping an eye on him and his house, we can quite well watch the activity of all Umbari spies in the city. According to the latest reports, he was hosting the captain of a Haradri merchant ship in the last couple of days."

"And that merchant ship just happens to be one of those that left ere the harbour would be closed down," said Denethor.

It was _not_ a question, but the Ciryatur nodded nevertheless.

"Conveniently, yea. _And_ Master Falassion also happened to be hosting a certain Umbari minstrel during the same couple of days. A minstrel with the impressive knowledge of a lore-master. A minstrel who was last seen near to _Ulmo's Well_, at about the same time as Princess Ivriniel went missing."

"Coincidence?" the Steward asked, doubt clearly written in his noble features.

Lord Lorindol shook his head.

"Unlikely. All the pieces fit together too well. Nay, this was a carefully planned and well-executed action, and I fear we may never find out what truly happened. Master Falassion is too good at that which he is doing under the disguise of a rich merchant."

"We may not figure out the _how_," said the Prince of Dol Amroth, "yet what about the _reason_? What can Umbar possibly hope from abducting my daughter? Trying to force an alliance? They must know that neither my father nor I would break our oath of fealty, not even to save a beloved child."

"They most certainly know that," said the Steward. "And yet Dol Amroth is the only fiefdom they could consider a potential ally. Your father is an independent monarch; the only Lord of Gondor who is not my subject but my liegeman by choice. They must be desperate if they seek such ways to forge an alliance."

"But why?" wondered Prince Adrahil. "Do we know about any major shift of power in Umbar lately?"

The Ciryatur shook his head.

"Leadership still seems to be in the same hands it has been for decades. Whatever might have changed, it must be something subtle. Unfortunately, we never succeeded in infiltrating the First Consul's household. Our best people tried – and were never heard of again. His servants are either loyal to a fault or frightened beyond measure – or both."

"What shall we do about my daughter, then?" asked Lady Olwen in bitter tears. "I have not heard of a plan yet to get her back."

"There is little we can do, my lady, save for waiting for a ransom letter," said the Ciryatur grimly.

"And what if there _shan't_ be one?" demanded Lady Olwen.

"Then, I fear, you must consider your daughter lost," answered Lord Lorindol. "Oh, we shall search all the ships still in the harbour. We shall search all the streets leading from and to _Ulmo's Well_. We shall even question Master Falassion, as always. But my heart tells me that it will be in vain. _If_ the Umbari were the ones who took Princess Ivriniel, then she is already beyond our reach."

There was heavy silence in the room as everyone – especially the Prince of Dol Amroth and his family – tried to accept the inevitable. After an endless moment, Finduilas turned to Denethor and said bitterly:

"This is all your fault!"

"Why would it be?" protested Denethor. "Your sister _always_ visits the Well if in Pelargir; everyone knows that!"

"True," she answered coldly. "But if not for you, she would not have gone alone."

On the same day – and in the following days – the Ciryatur indeed had alls hips in the harbour searched. As expected, his men found nothing. The servants of Prince Adrahil went through the streets leading from and to _Ulmo's Well_ with the fine-toothed comb, looking for any sign for the princess; especially the one leading to the harbour.

There, at least, they found _something_: one of Princess Ivriniel's handkerchiefs,- a pale green piece of finest Khandian silk, with her initials stitched in one corner with silver thread – on a small square, near a fish-shaped fountain.

"At least we know she came this far," said one of them grimly.

But the other one just shrugged. "Unless the kerchief was stolen and the thief lost it during his flight."

"Unlikely," the third one argued. "Why steal a kerchief when the princess was wearing enough jewellery to make any thief rich? Nay; mark my words: our lady _was_ here. Mayhap this is the very place where they grabbed her, ere taking her to a ship."

"There is no sign for a struggle, though," said the first one. "She must have been caught by surprise."

"Unless she went with them – whoever they were – quite willingly," replied the second one grimly.

"Impossible," said Prince Adrahil promptly when his servants returned to the King's House to report what they had found. "My daughter would never go willingly with those who intend to take her; why would she do such thing? It makes no sense."

"I shan't be so certain about that, Ada," said Finduilas. "I believe she _would_ go, if doing so promised her a higher purpose; one she no longer has here. However, I do not think that is what happened."

"Why not?" asked the Steward, realising that the princess knew her sister much better than anyone else. Even their parents.

'Twas not truly surprising, of course. They were close age-wise; and apparently close in every other way.

"My sister would not do so without weighing all arguments for and against going carefully first," explained Finduilas. "Clearly, there was no time for that; therefore she did _not_ go willingly. She was taught – we _both_ were taught – not to act at a whim of the heart. Which means, unless one of the Powers appeared to her at the Well and told her to go, she was taken against her will."

"And we all know how likely _that_ would be," added the Steward dryly.

They knew indeed. The Powers had not meddled directly with the affairs of Middle-earth since the Downfall of Númenor. Finduilas nodded.

"That is, sadly true," she agreed; then she turned to Denethor. "And thus I give you the chance to redeem yourself, my lord. You want me to become your wife? Very well, I will; on one condition."

"Name it," said Denethor eagerly.

"Bring me my sister back," replied Finduilas, "and I shall wed you on that very day."

And while the Steward's heir was still muted by shock, thirteen-year-old Imrahil chimed in.

"Worry not, sister mine. If he cannot, I certainly will."

~TBC~


End file.
